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Dean wasn't sure why he was still in the attic but he did know large chunks of his body hurt, and his mother was sitting next to him.

At least, he thought it was his mother even though she didn't bare any resemblance to what he thought Mary would look like when she got older. This should have been a cause for suspicion but his brain told him to shut up, the woman had made him cookies, and complete strangers didn't make any one cookies.

If she wanted to be his mom, he had no objections at this point in time.

She was talking to him, and he guessed she had been talking for a while but up until recently whatever she'd been saying hadn't made any sense. He was too busy trying to work with the mini-ethic's committee running around in his head and how that related to Calvin Lowry's exit from the attic. The woman that was sort of like his Mom had him propped up so that he was leaning against her on his right side, most of the weight being taken by the less bruised side of his hip and his thigh. His head was leaning against her shoulder.

"Bobby's going to be back in a minute, and then we'll get you out of here."

"Why is Bobby here?" He heard himself say and did actually wonder.

"He came over to help," she replied. He decided she had a nice voice.

"Oh. Where's Sam?"

"Down in the living room with Emma and Ben."

"Okay," he said but only had a vague recollection of who she was referring to.

There was a big cog in his brain, slowly spinning around, working its way back to normality. Events clicked into place, and he was feeling less unglued every second although taken aback with the realization that he'd temporarily managed to get himself unglued in the first place.

His brain was telling him that the woman who was letting him lean against her probably wasn't his mother. She was someone else, someone who'd been kind to both of them. Cheryl. Yeah, that was her name. He thought he'd try it out.

"Hey... Cheryl."

She smiled down at him, seemed pleased he remembered her name. "Hey kiddo. How are you?"

"Um. Okay?" He asked because he thought she might know the answer.

"Yeah, you're okay." She sounded very reassuring when she said it. Like he was supposed to take notice of it.

He tested her theory out but trying to move. His muscles demonstrated their current state of unlove for him by sending lots and lots of pain signals up to his brain. He sucked in his breath, decided not to try that again.

"Holy fucking cow," he breathed. Moving bad. Staying still, good.

"Yeah, I think you're gonna be sore for a couple of days at least. As soon as Bobby comes back, I want to get you down to my exam room, make sure there's nothing serious to worry about."

He didn't reply to that because at least she wasn't suggesting hospital.

She continued. "How are your legs? Any pins and needles?"

"No. I can feel everything. Damn it."

"You were moving around a lot, even though I tried to stop you. You want to wiggle your toes for me?"

"Not really." No, he didn't want to wiggle his toes. His toes and feet were throbbing in time to his heart beat, much like his thighs, his butt, his back, and his left upper arm.

"Yeah, I know, it sucks. But do an old lady a favor."

He did as she asked, experimentally shifted his toes around, and his feet, bit his bottom lip at the pain that was making itself known and stopped within ten seconds flat.

"See," he gasped. "All toes fully wriggling. But I think one of them is broken."

Actually there no thinking about it. The little toe on his left foot was folded in half at a ninety degree angle. There was a long cut that started at his big toe and followed up to stop halfway up his foot. It oozed blood.

"Is your neck okay? No pain?"

"Not as bad as everywhere else, so I guess it's okay."

"How much pain are you in, anywhere specific, or are some areas worse than others?"

"Everything hurts equally. I think that makes me a democracy."

"Was that a joke?"

"Maybe. I hurt too much to care whether it was funny or not."

It occurred to him that he wanted to move away from Cheryl, and deal with this whole mess the way he normally did. Limp off to a motel bathroom, wash off the worst of the blood, go to bed with a pack of ice and ignore Sam, unless Sam had to do some fancy stitching, pop a shoulder back into place for him, or cart him off to the hospital. Didn't cats do that? Run off and hide under a bush somewhere until they healed or died?

Problem was, he was too tired, too hurt to move. Which left him here, on the floor, his personal space definitely being breached, without the necessary resolve to crawl off. His emotional circuits were all screwed up anyway. Typical. Feed Dean Winchester and he was yours for life.

He was so pathetic. With that thought he started to prop himself back up.

"What the hell are you doing? Just stay here until Bobby gets back." Cheryl put an arm around his shoulders as gently as possible, pulled him back. Problem was, if she was any more caring and sympathetic, he was pretty sure a vein in his head would pop.

"Look, I'm okay. Just gotta get on my feet and I'll be fine. Really. Job's done and we really need to leave."

He was interrupted by the reappearance of Bobby. Who seemed startled to see him talking with some sense.

"Boy, you're not going anywhere. You're bruised, battered and you need to lie the fuck down and let someone take care of you."

Well, no arguing with Bobby when he used that tone of voice. If he tried making a play for freedom again he had no doubt that Bobby would simply hog tie him. Nope. Bobby Singer was an even, mild mannered kind of guy right up until you annoyed him one too many times, or tried to hurt someone innocent and then it was a shotgun in your face.

"Okay. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

"Hey, Bobby," he said. A question nagging at him. 'Is Sam okay?"

Bobby walked over, put the backboard down next to both of them then moved to kneel down in front of Cheryl and Dean, handing the cervical collar to Cheryl. "He's fine. He's taking care of Emma and Ben."

"How come he's not here?"

Cheryl answered the question "Because I told him to go and take care of them. I had my hands full and he was best person to make sure they were okay."

"Oh."

He blinked, felt tired. Cheryl had shifted her attentions to organizing his removal from the crappy, decorating nightmare of an attic. Despite the cotton wool feeling in his head, he didn't miss the look that went between Cheryl and Bobby. Bobby casually took out another package from a jacket pocket, handed that and a syringe, plus hypodermics to Cheryl.

"What?" He asked.

"Never mind," said Bobby.

"Yeah, uh-huh, Dad used to say the same thing and that phrase always meant something bad."

Cheryl chimed in. "I'm just going to give you a small dose of a sedative. I'm not knocking you out. I just want you relaxed enough that we can get you out of here without causing you too much stress."

Dean pulled a face, started to protest but something in him told him to shut up. Back in the old days, he hated sedation. It made him sleepy and vulnerable and he never remembered half of what happened when he was under its effects. But that was the old Dean. The thought of not having a care in the world, and curling up for eight hours of napping, with the added bonus of oblivion sounded like a vacation.

"Okay. I guess. If you think I need it."

He could see the shocked expression on Bobby's face. Dean Winchester was deferring to a doctor. About medication.

Cheryl smiled. "That's my boy." She used a small alcohol wipe on the crook of his arm. Loaded up a syringe and injected him. "You should feel this sooner rather than later."

She grabbed the collar. Gently placed it around his neck, strapped him into it. By the time she'd done that he was beginning to feel drowsy.

"How do you wanna do this?" Bobby was asking Cheryl, not Dean and Dean flashed back to a very early hazy memory of him in the backseat of the family car, Mom and Dad in the front, talking about adult stuff he didn't understand. He knew it was boring though.

Cheryl contemplated the backboard. "Let's get this against Dean, and then he can roll on it. If he lies curled up on his side in the same position, it shouldn't be too bad."

He was far too tired to care but never did like being talked about in the third person. "Hey, I'm right here. Hello."

Bobby shifted his focus again, to Dean. "You're gonna be bad ass about this, aren't you?"

"You're about to haul me out of here on this stupid stretcher thingy. That's a complete loss of dignity right there."

Bobby couldn't seem to figure out whether he should be amused, or irritated. "Stop your griping and just see if you can even straighten out first."

Cheryl shifted herself back a few inches, providing some stability for him as he slowly shuffled himself onto the backboard. The movement caused every single muscle to send urgent notes about the amount of hurt they were in.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck on a stick."

Cheryl ignored his sailor talk and bent down to get her grip on one set of handles. "I'll give you something for that when we're downstairs." She strapped him in as best so could, trying to make sure he wasn't going to slide off.

"I hope you mean the pain, and not for what I just said," said Dean. He was really proud of himself. Another joke in less than five minutes and he was on the verge of taking a very long nap.

Bobby went to the other end of the board, but Dean couldn't really see behind him, just feel Bobby experimenting with the weight and making sure he could pick everything up.

"Are we sure we don't want Sam to help? No insult but I'm being lifted by an old guy and a woman who's the size of an elf."

"Seriously boy, shut up."

"If you drop me, I'm gonna be unhappy."

"What did I just say?"

Truth was, as long as he kept making jokes, no matter how tired, and in pain he was, it made it okay. He could ignore his brief flight to where ever it was that he went and he could pretend everything was normal again in the Winchester way. That was, he'd been thumped, but good, but he wasn't in hospital, and that counted as a spectacular day in his books.

"Okay, on three," huffed Bobby.

Then he was in in the air by a few feet, and somehow they were all moving together, back towards the door.

They went past the spot where Lowry has disappeared into the floorboards and there were no signs that he'd existed, apart from the remains of the locket.

The first blue streaks of day were beginning to change the nature of the attic. Spooky shapes were turning into a dressmaker's dummy, an old mirror, a writing desk, broken chairs, and old suitcases.

Dean closed his eyes and thought about where he'd rather be now. In his car, driving down the freeway, maybe towards Huron and the fiberglass pheasant.

Yeah, that'd do.

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Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, Sam. Wake up."

The voice wasn't Dean's and it took a few moments for the fog to lift. Bobby was standing over him, gently shaking him on the shoulder. He abruptly sat up, thinking that every time someone woke him up this way he nearly always got crummy news.

"What? Is Dean okay?"

"He's good. Wondered if you wanted to help out getting him back upstairs. He's being a stubborn bastard, as usual."

Sam looked around the room, got his bearings. Daylight was streaming through the curtains and Emma and Ben were curled up on the couch, still wrapped in their too-big coats. The TV was still on.

"What's the time?"

"Eight in the morning."

"Really? You could have woken me sooner."

"You needed your beauty sleep."

That didn't make Sam's mood any happier. He should have been there for Dean, not sacked out in the living room.

"You couldn't have done anything," said Bobby, as if he'd read the expression on Sam's face and known what he was thinking. "Besides, how do you think Emma and Ben would have felt being left alone?"

"You could have taken care of them."

"Okay, yes. Maybe. But to be honest, I thought Dean could maybe do with some privacy."

He wanted to laugh at that, because they'd been sharing hotel rooms since Dean was four and privacy was definitely low on their most treasured moments. About the only time they ended up getting some alone time was when they went to the bathroom.

"Dean wouldn't have cared," he replied, sounding pissed off.

"So sue me, but I kind of thought he would. You know how much he tries to hide what he's feelin' and being in that state in front of his brother wasn't going to help."

Bobby had a point. Dean had slammed shut about his time in hell for months, deeply ashamed of what had happened. He'd shut down even more if he thought Sam had witnessed his temporary nervous breakdown. Dean Winchester didn't do vulnerable and he didn't do broken. Neither did Sam when it came to his big brother. Sam didn't know what to do with broken.

"Come on. He's down the hallway."

He got out of his chair, groaned at the state of his own back, followed Bobby out into the hallway and down to the room Cheryl used as her doctor's office. The door was open and Cheryl was helping a hunched over Dean slowly do a shuffle walk. He was wearing a t-shirt and what looked to be a pair of Sam's PJ pants because the cuffs were rolled up. Presumably Cheryl hadn't found anything suitable in Dean's stash of clothes. Sam could tell that Dean was in the sort of mood reserved for Dean's list of irritations that included slow waitresses, waitresses at diners that served bad hamburgers, people that drove to the speed limit, librarians and old people who insisted on paying for their groceries with their penny collection.

He also looked half asleep, so he wasn't really putting as much effort into being irritated as he usually did.

Sam easily slid around the other side, grabbed Dean's other arm, took the rest of the weight. Whether Dean wanted to admit it or not, he was leaning on them both just to stay upright.

"When is the diclofenac going to kick in?" Dean demanded of Cheryl. He didn't seem to notice Sam.

"Shortly. Now keep shuffling."

"I'm not going to make it upstairs. I'll sleep downstairs."

"I don't want you to have to walk too far to the bathroom and the couch isn't suitable for sleeping on in your condition."

"You make it sound like I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant woman aren't nearly as cranky," she replied. "We get you upstairs then you're staying there for a few days."

Dean finally seemed to notice that the other half of him was being propped up. He gave his brother a half smile and then he blinked owlishly a couple of times. "Hey, Sam."

"Hey," replied Sam.

"Hey, Sam. I'm going to sleep as soon as I hit the bed."

"That's great, Dean," said Sam, wondering why Dean had felt the need to make the announcement.

Sam took a breath, figuring out the best way to reestablish brotherly bonds. "How're you feeling?"

"How'd you think I'm feeling? Fucked up. This hurts worse than when I break a bone. Cause when that happens they give me the good stuff. I told her I could just walk it off, but no, she says I can't get walk around for a day or two."

Sam smirked at that, then found himself looking down at Dean's bare feet. They were mottled with one long smear of blue and red. A little toe had been taped to the other toes. There were six stitches along the back of the big toe, snaking up to the top of the left foot.

Cheryl let out a sigh. "He's screwed up the muscles in his lower back again. Normally I'd tell him to keep active, but with the muscle contusions as well, I don't think he's going to be in any shape to go anywhere over the next two days. The only upside is there aren't any major breaks and there's no compartment syndrome. Or at least, not right now."

Dean snapped at her. "I'm right here!"

They managed to make it to the base of the stairs. Dean looked up at the single flight of stairs and groaned.

"We're never going to get up there."

"Sam and Bobby are going to lift you."

Bobby swapped positions with Cheryl.

"Okay. Fine. Let's do this," grumped Dean.

He put one foot up on the stair, and Sam and Bobby simultaneously stepped up, their arms firmly under Dean's braced arms and this also allowed Dean to restrict his need to bare too much weight on the up step.

Between the three of them they completed the climb, even though they were all beginning to breath heavily and then they maneuvered Dean towards the bed.

Cheryl pulled the quilt and top sheet out of the way and he was able to lie down, on his front before complaining. "Great, now I'm stuck like this."

Cheryl shook her head, bent down towards him. "Why don't you try lying on your side?"

She rolled him expertly, Dean drawing up his knees with a hiss. Cheryl grabbed a pillow, put it between his ankles to keep his bruised feet from contacting each other.

He didn't seem any happier. But his eyelids were drooping shut anyway.

"I'm going back down for the ice packs. Bobby's going to mind Emma and Ben for a while. Do you want Sam to stay?"

Sam kept thinking it was strange that everyone kept asking whether Sam should stick around.

"Uh huh," replied Dean as if Cheryl was asking if he wanted the sky to be blue. Of course Sam was sticking around because that's what Sam did.

She gave them both a smile, left the room, hauling Bobby out by the arm. Presumably she wanted to give them some alone time.

Sam pulled the chair closer, looked at his brother. There was a smudge of dirt across his face. His hair was covered in dust. The chasm between them seemed impossibly wide even though they were inches apart.

"You cold?" Sam asked. It was a straightforward expression of concern. Nothing about how anyone was feeling, or unspoken subtext about what had gone on in the attic. They were experts at this particular dance, but then so were most men.

Dean yawned, curled up some more. "No. My back feels like its burning though."

"The ice packs should make that feel better."

Dean didn't reply. He seemed half asleep but struggling to stay awake like a kid who didn't want to go to bed. This seemed to inspire him to say something else. "So much for a simple hunt,"

"Yeah," chuckled Sam.

"We should probably take it up with Bobby."

"I think Bobby feels guilty enough already."

"Definitely."

Dean's eyelids shut completely for a moment before he jerked back awake. "It'll be good for bribery later on."

"Barbecues in summer?"

"He's great with the steak."

"I worry that the highlight of our summer is the possibility of eating barbecued steak in a junkyard."

Dean smiled. It made him look his actual age, and that was good.

They had run out of things to say and Dean's eyes were drifting shut again. Sam sat and watched Dean in silence and realized he'd never felt closer to his father. He wondered if his father had sat like this, wanting his children to understand what he was doing for them. He was sacrificing everything to make sure it never happened again. That his children were safe. Sam understood that. He was sacrificing everything to make sure no one harmed Dean again. That neither of them had to make deals, or live like they did. That somehow he would give them a chance to row back to the shore of a normal life. Not right now, but in the future. He'd be happy if they got into their forties and they had a place that they could actually call home. Just to stay in one place for more than a month would be a novelty.

He thought Dean was finally asleep but his eyes opened again. "Man, this hurts like you wouldn't believe."

"Are the drugs working yet?"

"Starting to. Still burns though."

Cheryl came back, clutching a towel and what looked like enough ice bags for a party of 200. "Sorry, had to raid the freezer. This should help make you more comfortable."

They had to roll him again, so that he was face down, cover him in towels and then lay out the bags on the worst of it. It would be funny if Dean wasn't in so much pain.

"This is stupid," griped Dean. Then, as he was reaching around to throw an ice bag across the bed, he promptly fell asleep.

Sam stayed with him, Dean starting to shiver slightly before Sam took the ice packs off after fifteen-minutes as directed by Cheryl. Thought that their lives really did suck, all things considered.

He spent the rest of the day in the bedroom, helping Dean shift positions in the bed when he woke up, usually bitchy from the pain, applied ice packs every hour, tried to not be concerned that Cheryl was up checking Dean hourly as well, dosing him with a different set of pills every four hours. He squinted and read the pack when she propped Dean up enough to swallow the medication. Diclofenac he knew, but didn't have a clue what prazosin was. He'd look it up later on the 'Net.

Bobby came to visit in the afternoon. Dean woke up, started raving on about barbecues before zoning out again.

"He's not in such a great mood," noted Bobby.

"No," replied Sam. "Not really."

"When he's up and about, you should take him to see the pheasant."

Sam nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing."

"You know I'm damn sorry for how this turned out."

"Hey, we're alive. And you weren't to know."

"Talk about a dumb idea for giving you boys some down time. Normal people would have just bought you two tickets to Disneyland."

"Normal people would be thrilled to go to Disneyland. Knowing the two of us, we'd probably wind up having to deal with a case of demonic possession on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

"You two do seem to attract the bad, I must admit. It's like you're candy to every bit of creepy within a six hundred mile radius."

"What can I say? I think it's our good looks."

"You mean my good looks and your Forrest Gump like innocence," mumbled Dean.

"Go back to sleep," said Sam. "And I do not look like Forrest Gump."

"You do when you run. Life is like a box of chocolates."

"Okay, enough. Back to sleep."

Bobby regarded the lump in the bed, sighed. Scratched his head through his cap.

"I guess I'd better go and arrange to get me a side of beef from the farm down the road before July. Even though it's a long way off."

"You can make hamburgers."

Sam crossed his arms, "Dean, go to sleep!"

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