The house always feels empty without Sam. The more nights he spends out late with Jess, the more Dean realizes this is his future. Alone. Sam might not end up with Jess—but he'll be with someone, eventually.

Dean's not so sure about himself.

Sam's on his way to becoming a fancy lawyer. Dean has a GED and a business in danger of losing its home base Maybe it's a sign that Dean should be focusing his attention elsewhere.

Dean stomps upstairs and pushes the mail off the counter. The tax letter surfaces, and he quickly shoves it back into the pile. No use getting depressed about that. Instead, Dean digs out a battered journal from under the mess and opens it.

John Winchester's journal. All the haunted places in America that Dean, Sam, and their father had visited are detailed inside. The first quarter of the book reads like a family scrapbook. Dean remembers all of the locations, not from their entries, but from visiting them in person.

The remainder of the book lists out potential locations accompanied by information printed out, hand-drawn maps and pictures, pages of instructions, and sometimes clippings from newspapers and articles. All the places John had planned to visit, before the accident.

You're the man of the house now, and all my research falls to you, John's voice echoes in Dean's mind as he gingerly turns the pages, Take care of Sammy.

Dean keeps his promises.

Even if his last ghost hunt was a failure, the Marshall House was scheduled for reconstruction, and their house was facing a tax lien. Sam was his one shining accomplishment.

And Dean should be celebrating his accomplishments, not lamenting his failures.

Closing the journal, Dean turns the lights off in the main room and gets ready for bed. The hunt was a disaster, probably only strengthening Castiel's beliefs that ghosts and spirits were a figment of the imagination. And what's with the guy not mentioning that he owns the building they're breaking into? Or him offering to walk Dean home. And chatting up about his online relationship.

Speaking of which.

Dean pulls up the app and smiles when he sees a familiar name.

Wayward67,

Is there anything more attractive than passionate people? People who throw themselves into their beliefs and their actions. There's nothing more alluring to me than finding someone who feels strongly enough about something to take action instead of standing aside. Sometimes in my job, I find myself pitted against passionate people. I'm always secretly pulling for them, even when it's not in my company's best interest. Because these passionate people? They're the real value in this world.

I hope your evening was pleasurable. I think of you often.

Sincerely,

Thursday00

It's a different kind of message. More introspective. Dean agrees with the sentiment. He smiles when he sees that Thursday is still online.

Wayward67: hey hot stuff, how's ur tweaking goin

Thursday00: It makes me smile just to see your name on the screen. My project continues. I hope your day went well.

Wayward67: meh probably screwed myself over tonight

Thursday00: Do you want to open up Skype again?

Wayward67: not the fun kind of screwed myself. I had this thing tonight, really needed to prove a point to this guy, but it didn't work out

Thursday00: If you put your passion into it, there's no limit to what you can achieve.

Wayward67: maybe. not sure that applies here

Thursday00: I apologize, I'm not always the best at consoling people.

Wayward67: yeah I guess it's just all related, my company's financial shit, and this meeting, I was passionate but, I'm starting to realize, it's pointless

Thursday00: Why is your project pointless?

Wayward67: well, long story short, I'm being forced to sell my house. I'll get some cash, but the thing is, I really didn't wanna sell.

You're the man of the house now… John's words are back. And, of course, Mom. Dean shakes his head and resumes typing.

Wayward67: I'm not giving up, but even if this project somehow goes exactly how I want it to go, I still gotta sell. And I kinda work out of my home so, it's a business problem.

Dean releases a long exhale. Why does it feel so good? Opening up to what is almost a total stranger. A hot, sexy stranger—but still. He couldn't talk to Sam about money, and Bobby had turned on him in a heartbeat.

Thursday00: I am sorry you are going through that.

Wayward67: gah sorry for the baggage just feels good to vent, and don't worry I ain't hopeless

Thursday00: I do not mind, at all. What are your hopes?

Wayward67: I've been writing a book if you can believe that. My texting skills don't do me justice I swear

Thursday00: You've always come across as very intelligent, to me.

Wayward67: nah man that's u with ur fancy grammar and punctuations and shit

Thursday00: I would want to read any book that you wrote. I hope I get the chance, one day.

Wayward67: after we meet ;) night sexy I had a late night so falling asleep

Thursday00: Sweet dreams.


Dean grips a wooden stake in one hand and shoves the other hand into his pocket. He glares up at the sky, a breath away from birthing a tremendous storm.

"I'm freezing my tits off," says Ash, next to Dean, wearing a Budweiser T-shirt he's obviously cut the sleeves off himself. Resting on his hips is his sign reading Go Home Angel. "When is this supposed to happen?"

"The demolition is scheduled for nine o'clock, where is everybody?" asks Dean, frowning as a huge gust of wind catches his sign reading Save The Marshall House and threatens to push him into Ash.

"Maybe they stayed home, what on the fact that it's definitely gonna rain soon," says Ash.

"I always enjoy thunderstorms," says Garth, standing tall and scrawny in a bright blue windbreaker and tan jeans. His sign declares Marshall House = Heritage. "Reminds me of growing up out West."

"So everyone wants to save the Marshall House unless it means getting caught in a little bit of rain? You gotta be fucking kidding me."

The first fat drops slam into the concrete around them.

"I'm here!"

Dean looks up and glares as Sam runs, clutching his sign over his head like an umbrella.

"Sorry I'm late, I'm here now," says Sam. His sign is over his head but Dean can read the Save Our City's Soul even from the strange angle.

"This is a goddamn protest, Sam, you can't be late to a protest!"

"Better late than never," says Garth with a big grin that Dean answers with another glare.

"Sorry, I slept through my alarm, I was at Jess' house, and…"

"What if they had started demolition on schedule?" asks Dean, as the rain begins to fall steadily. "You show up late to a demolition, it might have just been me sitting here in front of a pile of rubble!"

"Well, luckily, they're behind," says Sam, staring up at the sky and getting hit by a fat raindrop in the eye. "Ack, maybe the rain'll delay things?"

"Yeah, it's starting to mean it," says Ash, staring up, sticking his tongue out for good measure. "I'm retreating back to the Roadhouse. You guys comin'?"

"I haven't seen Miss Ellen in a while," says Garth, grinning. "That sounds like a mighty good plan."

"No, I ain't movin' til I know this building ain't going nowhere," says Dean. Ash shrugs and walks away, Garth in tow. Sam's eyes following them, a wistful expression on his face. "You can go, too, Sammy."

"Nah, I'm staying with you," says Sam. He wraps his arms around himself as the rain begins to soak through his clothing. He's wearing the same plaid shirt over gray undershirt and jeans he'd been wearing the previous day.

"Walk of shame," says Dean, shivering slightly in the chilly shower.

"I meant to go home and change, but, like I said, running late," says Sam. "Hey, over there."

Dean follows Sam's finger toward the Marshall House where the crew is walking away from the heavy machinery, and back toward their trucks. The engines turn over and everyone begins to drive away. Sam waves his sign and gets in front of one of the trucks.

"Hey! Excuse me! What time are you guys coming back?" asks Sam.

"Boss called it for the day, too many storms, you should get yourself to shelter, they've got a tornado watch next county over," the worker shouts out the window, before driving away. Several other vehicles follow until there's not a living soul on the construction site—save Sam and Dean.

"Hey, that's a win," says Sam, clapping his wet hands. "We should get out of here before we get oversaturate."

"That's what they're waiting for," says Dean, pushing his wet hair back away from his forehead, and glaring around the area. "This is some ploy, they're gonna pretend to give up, then show up here in ten minutes."

"No way," says Sam, laughing uneasily, "that's insane. C'mon, man, let's go meet up with Ash and Garth, grab a beer."

"You go," says Dean, sniffing loudly, "I'll call you when they show back up, expecting no more opposition."

Lightning flashes somewhere in the clouds, followed shortly by thunder.

"Hey, whatever, you're being crazy," says Sam, shaking his long, wet hair. "I'm going inside. If you're not right behind me, I'm coming out here to drag you in."

"I'd like to see you try," Dean mumbles under his breath as Sam lumbers away, soaking wet.

Not that Dean's much better. The wind picks up, and the rain continues. Constant rivulets pour down his forehead, obstructing his view. He stares in all directions, expecting the trucks to show up. They're waiting for his guard to go down. A wet tarp blows across the street, catching Dean's eye until he hears a voice behind him.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean snaps his head around and exhales wetly. Castiel holds the world's largest umbrella, leaving himself perfectly dry underneath, wearing his usual trench coat over navy suit.

"I told you I had plans for this," says Dean, giving a defiant look. It's difficult, because the cold causes his teeth to chatter, and he has to fight to keep it from showing.

"I tried calling the number listed for you on your website after the crews reported some protestors," says Castiel, frowning. "The demolition was canceled due to inclement weather. We'll have to reschedule the crew next week, as this was the only day they were available this week."

Dean reaches into his pocket and almost drops his phone due to numbness from the wet and cold. He sees the notification for seven missed calls.

"Castiel No-sack?"

"Uh, sorry, that was a, um, typo," says Dean, quickly shoving his phone back into his pocket to prevent Castiel from reading over his shoulder. "You better not be playing some trick on me, Cas. I'll never forgive you—and I can hold a grudge."

"We should get inside," says Castiel, smiling as he extends the umbrella. Dean begrudgingly moves closer, though he's already soaked through and the umbrella does nothing to block the biting wind. Another lightning strike followed by much closer thunder.

"Fine," says Dean, sighing.

"And you need to get out of those clothes," says Castiel.

"Whoa, buy me a drink, first," says Dean, chattering at his own joke.

"You'll catch a cold," says Castiel.

"Yeah, right, no way in hell I'm catching a cold."


It was lucky there were no scheduled tours that Thursday because Dean came down with a monster cold. Sam stocks the pantry with soup, brings Dean his fluffiest blanket and places several boxes of tissues around before packing his bag.

Sam leaves Dean alone, retreating to the safety of Jess' apartment, citing germs and the impossibility of leading any tours if they were both sick. Dean treats himself to an all-day Dr. Sexy marathon on Lifetime.

Dean is more blanket than man when someone knocks loudly on the door downstairs. He groans, pulling the blanket up over his face. The knocking continues. "Go away," grumbles Dean. But the knocking comes again, followed by the sound of the door opening.

"Hey," says Dean, his hoarse voice cracking, sending him into a spastic coughing fit. "We're closed! Come back during business hours or call ahead..."

The sound of hard-soled shoes on the stairs precedes the appearance in the apartment doorway. Dean groans and covers his head again.

"Hello, Dean."

"Cas, what the hell are you doing here," says Dean, grabbing a tissue, and hurriedly scrubbing at his face.

"I hope you don't mind-the door was open. Jess is an intern at my company and she let it slip that Sam said you had come down with a cold," says Castiel, holding up a canvas grocery bag. "I brought supplies."

"Sammy left me fully stocked, thanks for the concern," says Dean, sniffing loudly.

"Well, I can help you by heating up something to eat?"

"Not hungry," says Dean.

"You'll feel better after some soup," says Castiel, nodding. He lets himself into the dirty kitchen, and Dean stands up from under his blanket. He immediately dashes around the room to pick up as many dirty tissues as possible.

"I'm contagious," says Dean, glaring back into the kitchen. Castiel's back is to him as he rummages through the cupboards and comes out with a can of soup. "You're gonna get sick."

"I'll take my chances," says Castiel, humming to himself. "I have an impeccable immune system."

"Of course you do," mutters Dean, before coughing again. He resigns himself to the couch, wrapping the blankets back around himself. "I don't need nursing. I'll be fine in the morning."

"Maybe," says Castiel. He pauses and turns around with eyes narrowed. "I thought I recognized that theme song."

Dean jumps to grab the remote and quickly punches the buttons. "It got stuck on that channel, by accident, must have bumped it when I heard you come in, I thought I was being robbed, dude."

"Now, back to Naked Dating…" comes the announcement from the television.

Dean stares in horror as two people sit, having drinks, completely naked with the appropriate censor blurs.

"This is what you were watching?" asks Castiel, raising an eyebrow.

Which is worse? Naked Dating, or Dr. Sexy? There's only a second to decide...

Dean sinks down lower on the couch. "Uh huh."

"Does your online boyfriend know you are into naked dating?" asks Castiel.

"Shut up."

"You going to try for another meeting by luring him in with your nudity?"

"Are you just here to make me more miserable?" asks Dean, turning the television off.

"No," says Castiel, walking away from the stove where a pot sits over low heat. "I came over to entertain you, while you're sick."

"No thanks, just go away."

"Are you sure?" asks Castiel, raising an eyebrow. "I brought Monopoly."

Dean peeks his head up as Castiel walks to the bag and produces the classic board game.

"Huh," says Dean, sitting up and clearing his throat, which results in more coughing. "You think because I didn't graduate high school, I won't' be a threat?"

"I didn't say…"

"Because I am fucking great at Monopoly. Usually better with more players, though."

"We'll see about that."

An hour later, Dean is full of soup, and Boardwalk and Park Place both have hotels built—but so far Castiel isn't landing.

In a surprising turn of events, Dean doesn't hate spending time with Castiel. It's comfortable. Maybe all the time they've spent together has confused his brain. Because despite how nice it is to laugh and talk with Castiel, he's still the enemy.

Dean glances down at his phone for the hundredth time. Still no messages from Thursday.

"Your boyfriend?" asks Castiel.

Dean shrugs and rolls the dice. He moves the silver car piece ahead five spaces and picks up a Chance card. "Go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go…"

"You get that card a lot," says Castiel, chuckling to himself.

"We usually exchange messages through the day, but today, nothing," says Dean, shrugging. "Could just be busy, I mean, I don't know what the guy does, but his schedule seems pretty full. Guess I'm just nervous lately. If he still doesn't want to meet, then, maybe it's time to consider moving on."

"You may want to wait a few days," says Castiel, reaching for the tissue box and handing a fresh one to Dean.

Dean accepts a tissue and blows loudly into it. "Obviously," is Dean's nasal reply.

Castiel gives a small nod, grabbing the die and rubbing them between his hands. "But, you still like the guy?"

"Yeah, but if we can't meet up then, maybe look at something, I dunno, closer to home…" Dean shrugs, pretending the statement doesn't make him feel as though his lungs are constricting. He passes it off as another coughing fit.

"You…have other options, you're considering…" Castiel's voice sounds strangely tight.

Oh, shit. Does Cas think he's flirting? Is he flirting? It's harmless, isn't it? Considering Castiel lives with Meg and all.

"Not really," says Dean, sniffing again. He picks up his silver car and dumps it into the jail side of the square. He looks up and gives Castiel his best puppy dog eyes. "Bail me out?"

"Consider trading me Pacific Avenue?" asks Castiel.

"Go Fish," says Dean, causing Castiel to laugh as he pauses with the die in his hands. He finally drops them with a heavy thud and begins to move his Scotty dog along the row until…

"I do hope you enjoy your stay here at Chateau Winchester, we have all the amenities you'd expect of a five-star hotel on Boardwalk, for the low-low price of…" Dean slaps his hand down across the remainder of Castiel's colorful bills, "…everything you got."

"Wait," says Castiel, laughing as he attempts to pry Dean's hand off of his money pile, "I have property I can mortgage, I can sell houses, I can…"

"Dude, I am beating you from jail right now, this is great…"

"Would you quit blocking me from the bank, let me liquidate some assets…"

"You're just prolonging the inevitable, Cas," says Dean, gripping Castiel's hand, twining their fingers together, then pulling his hand close to himself. "Don't fight it, just admit it…" Dean releases his hand, and swipes a handful of the highest bill denominations from Castiel's pile, "I'm obviously the better real estate mogul of the two of us."

"I went easy on you because you're sick," says Castiel, turning up his nose.

"Bullshit, you're just a sore loser…"

"Well, you're a bad winner."

"No such thing," says Dean, giving a smug smirk before Castiel's withering glare leaves him in another coughing fit. "Too bad we weren't playing for something more than Monopoly bragging rites."

"You really think I would bet my business' million dollar project on a game about winning Beauty Pageants and plastic hotels."

"No, but maybe I could have gotten you out of that trench coat," says Dean.

Castiel glances up, quickly, afraid he'd misheard. Dean meets his eyes with a dark look and waggles his eyebrows for good measure. Castiel's mouth hangs open, and before he can formulate any kind of response, the apartment door opens.

Perhaps it's too far. Even if Castiel is with Meg, some men take it very personally when men flirt with them. And why is Dean flirting with the enemy, anyway?

"Hey, they were out of Chicken and Stars, but I got you some Star Wars soup, the shapes all look pretty generic to me, but maybe if you squint or something…" Sam blunders into the room, two large brown paper grocery sacks obscuring his face. He stomps into the kitchen, without the aid of his eyes, and sets the bags down. He reaches into one of them and pulls out a can. "It says this one is a lightsaber but, I don't know, looks more like a vibrator to me, and…"

Sam turns and drops the can back into the bag upon spotting Dean and Castiel on the couch beside the ruined Monopoly board. "Holy Shit, Mr. Novak."

"Hello Sam," says Castiel, standing up, a few colorful bills fluttering to the ground like confetti.

"What uh," Sam has to pause to clear his throat, his face obviously boiling hot, "…whatcha, um, whatcha doin' here?"

"Cas came by to challenge my real estate mogul skills," says Dean, giving a smirk and a wink. "Don't worry, I embarrassed him."

"I came by to make sure your brother was well since I had warned him he would catch cold after his protest was rained out," says Castiel, pulling his coat tighter around himself. "It seems the common cold is no match for your brother's obnoxious attitude."

"That's a compliment, thanks," says Dean.

"Do you wanna stick around, I'm going to heat up some more soup, and maybe watch a movie?" asks Sam.

"Thank you for the offer, but I need to get back to my condo," says Castiel. "I hope you continue to feel better, Dean."

"Yeah uh, thanks…Cas," says Dean, standing up and bringing a large, plaid blanket with him, wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl. "I'll walk you out."

"There's no need."

"I've been on my ass for hours, lemme do this," says Dean, pushing into Castiel's shoulder with his own and jerking his chin toward the stairs. "Be right back, Sammy."

Castiel leads the way down the stairs, into the dark room that acts as the main area for their tour groups but sits empty during the days. Dean manages to make it all the way to the front door without coughing and opens the still unlocked door.

"It was nice spending time with you, Dean."

"Yeah, sure, same," says Dean, shrugging in his blanket. "I just hope I can beat you in the real-life game of Monopoly we got going on."

"Dean, I've been thinking about that," says Castiel, pausing in the doorway. "Maybe there is a way we can keep huge parts of the Marshall House. We could save the pieces, have them moved to a different location. You could continue your tours there. Could this be a compromise?"

"Why would you offer that?" asks Dean, meeting Castiel's eyes with disbelief. "Your family would be okay with that?"

"No," says Castiel, frowning. "No, they wouldn't. But I wouldn't mind purchasing a location and moving the pieces there, at my own expense. If it meant you would support the project."

Dean's eyes cloud for a moment. "I appreciate the offer, Cas, but I don't think that's gonna be enough. I'll have to ask Pam when we go visit on Saturday night."

Dean makes to close the door, and Castiel takes a small step out of the doorway, dejection plain on his face.

"I'll see you at the psychic reading," says Dean.

"Of course," says Castiel.


"So, Castiel Novak," says Sam, upon Dean's arrival back up the stairs in their apartment.

"Yep," says Dean.

"You wanna explain what that was all about?"

"Not really," says Dean, dropping heavily back onto the couch and pulling the blanket back over his body.

"Castiel Novak, your arch nemesis, a man you claim to hate, and yet you've been spending more time with him than with your online girlfriend."

Girlfriend. Dean should correct him, but he doesn't.

"We haven't even met yet," says Dean, mumbling under his breath.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should forget that chick, and focus on someone a little more here, a little more available…"

"Wait, are you...you mean Castiel?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with it? You're bisexual."

"Sure, but you think Castiel is available?" asks Dean, scoffing as he grabs for a fresh tissue. "Hardly. You met Meg the night of the tour. She lives with him. She told me she's single, but I have no idea what to make of them."

"I guess I didn't think much about it," says Sam, starting the stove and preparing the condensed soup. "He's definitely not married, but Meg did seem like more than a friend, and she told me she's not his assistant…"

Dean can't see Sam's face, but he can clearly imagine that confused puppy thing he gets going on when he's thinking.

"I asked her about it, at the tour, and she said she was his beard," says Dean, blowing his nose loudly into the tissue. "Ugh, whatever the fuck that means."

"His beard? Dean, are you sure that's what she said?" asks Sam. Dean turns around on the couch and catches Sam's wide eyes.

"Yeah, I think so, why? The guy doesn't have a beard, she certainly doesn't have a beard, I have no idea what to…"

"Dean, a beard is a term, when someone is putting up a fake relationship to hide the fact that they are not…heteronormative?"

"Hetero-what now?" asks Dean.

"Well, homosexual men used to have 'wives,'" says Sam, pulling out the air quotes. "These 'wives' knew that their 'husbands' were homosexual, but they kept up the facade to allow the men to live without persecution because of their sexuality."

"So a beard means Meg is pretending to be with Castiel to hide the fact that he's gay?" asks Dean.

"I wouldn't just assume that he's gay," says Sam, turning back toward the stove. "He could be bisexual, like you, or maybe he's pansexual, or asexual, or anything other than, ya know, heteronormative."

"Then it's possible that Castiel…likes men."

Sam's shrug is audible. "I mean, possibility, especially if she's telling the truth about being his beard, yeah."

Since the day Castiel intersected him, by chance, at the Moon River Brewery, Castiel has known that Dean dates men. Also since that day, Dean and Castiel have spent a considerable amount of time together. And it's possible Castiel also dates men.

Those looks. Walking him home. Coming over to take care of him when he has a cold. Offering to move the Marshall House somewhere else?

Holy shit. Was Castiel interested in him?

But then again, Castiel and his family want Dean's movement to be squelched without any more negative publicity. Castiel had gone through extreme measures to ensure that Dean went to his company's presentation. And he did claim he wanted to see proof, while also dismissing every paranormal clue on their outings together.

The entire thing made Dean nervous. And he hates feeling nervous.

"He offered to move the Marshall House," says Dean.

"He, wait, what?" asks Sam, a spoon clanks against the pot as he stirs. "How?"

"I don't know, I told him it doesn't work that way," says Dean, sighing as he sinks down deeper into the old couch. "It won't matter."

"You're fighting all this, you got me, you got Jess working on this project, and you're saying it won't matter?" asks Sam.

"Look, I didn't want to have to burden you but, I feel you should probably know, alright? The taxes? They've gone up. Considerably. And the payments from the book royalties? They're down—hell, they're almost nonexistent. And it's put us in a really tough spot."

"You need help with cash, Dean, why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because it's not your problem, Sammy," says Dean, craning his neck around. "It's not your problem, okay? It's mine. And I'm going to handle it."

"The Marshall House, all this, you thought, what, it would help with the taxes?"

"I thought if Angel Construction met enough resistance, they'd fuck off, and leave us alone, then maybe the huge increases would level out," says Dean, sighing. "But it looks like they're here to stay. And even if Cas moves the house somewhere else, it won't save those spirits, and it won't save our house value."

"Do you want to consider…moving?" asks Sam.

Silence follows, broken only by the soft clink of the spoon stirring the soup.

"Hell no, you know we can't leave this house," says Dean, sighing. "I made a promise to dad—to you. I'm not going to abandon this house, not without a fight. So I'm telling you now because there's no reason for you to worry, okay? Because I got a plan. I'm gonna finish the book."

"The…you're going to finish the book, before June? The book that you've been working on for the last six years since dad died?"

"Yeah, that book," says Dean.

"Dean, that's insanity, you won't be able to…"

"I can take out a loan," says Dean, shrugging in his blanket. "I'll take out a loan, finish the book, make enough to pay it off, and then the increased sales revenue will keep us in this house long enough to figure out…something else, I don't know. I can work day shifts at Bobby's to make ends meet…"

"I could get a job," says Sam.

"Fuck that, you're a student, you don't need to be putting your time into anything that isn't school work or some kinda lawyer internship, you hear me? This is serious, you're going to make a damn fine lawyer, you're going to really help people, that's what we've been working toward all this time…"

"We should sell."

"What kinda quitter talk is this…"

"We should sell this house, and move somewhere better," says Sam. He pulls out two bowls and pulls the soup off of the heat. "Yeah, you know, there are lots of old houses outside of the historical district, maybe they're haunted, too? We could set up shop, there? Or get a small shop front, not like we need a big house just to have people meet up to catch a bus."

"They might be haunted, what the hell are you talking about?" asks Dean, turning around to glare. "Even if they're haunted, they're not haunted by our mother."

"You don't know that this place is haunted…"

"I do," says Dean, his voice deadly serious. "I know it's haunted. You know it. Dad knew it. There is a spirit in this house, and all signs point to mom. We're not moving."

"What if it's not mom?" asks Sam. It's so quiet, Dean doubts he even heard correctly.

"Come again?"

"What if it's not mom? Would that change your mind about all these, schemes, plans and desperate money grabs?"

"It's a moot point, Sam, this is where mom was…this is where mom passed, and she's still here. She's watching over us. Dad knew it, I know it, and you used to know it, what happened?"

"I don't know," says Sam, bringing two full bowls to the table and setting them down. "I was really young. Sometimes, I felt like I was playing along, not really believing, the things that happened…"

"You were just a kid, but trust me, when you were little, there was all sorts of supernatural activity around this place," says Dean. He makes his way to the table, shuffling along with his blanket shawl. "Her jewelry moving, pictures facing down—only pictures of Mom? How do you explain all the flickering lights or the night she spoke to me…"

"You were a scared teenager, dad died and you were alone to raise me, and maybe you didn't really see mom, maybe it was something else…"

"I heard mom," says Dean, sitting down and picking up his spoon. "I heard mom, and she told me to take care of you. Just like Dad used to say. Take care of Sammy, she said. And I promised I would."

"Well, she didn't say, 'keep the house no matter what,' so maybe she would understand?"

"This conversation is over, man," says Dean, stirring his supposedly Star Wars shaped noodles around the bowl. "I'm not losing this house. You don't believe me, now, but I will make sure it happens. Don't lose faith, man."

"I never lose faith in you, Dean," says Sam, pulling up a spoonful of steaming broth to blow on. "We always find a way."