NEXT

Dwight had to get Helen to let him in. She was snippy, none too pleased to be relinquishing her guests. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't simply stealing her source of income away for purely competitive reasons, but at the moment he thought it best to stay silent on the matter. He simply let her grumble, and when she'd gone, he loaded their belongings into his truck and returned to Edith's. He made sure his old Aunt didn't see the rather shocking assortment of weapons stashed amongst their things, but he also made sure they stayed safely under lock and key until he knew more about these two boys. Better safe than sorry.

Edith was busy heating some broth, and he brought the pills in to Dean. Dean stirred at the sound of his visitor. "Sammy-?" His eyes were glassy with fever again, he was shaking and damp.

"No, son, it's me, it's Dwight. I have your medicine here, do you understand?" He carefully lifted Dean's head and pressed one of the large pills to his lips, and held a cup of water.

Dean turned away. "No, I gotta go. I have to find him-" he croaked, attempting to rise.

Dwight pushed him back gently. "Whoa, Dean; you're not going anywhere, not today. Take this now. I'll go to the house and look for him again, I promise."

His comprehension was slow, but he blinked at Dwight, and nodded.

Dwight knew what he'd seen at that graveside, but he still needed to hear it confirmed. "Dean...do you remember what happened with Sam?"

"Hannah... Sam touched something, something linked to her…she was pulled into him, somehow, I don't know." He was out of breath and he stopped, wheezing. "Did we burn them, her bones?"

"No, sorry...you were the only one burned. Should we, I mean...should I- finish it, Dean?" Dwight asked, praying the answer was no.

Dean rubbed his face, willing clarity onto his foggy brain. "I...I don't know yet… I don't know what it'll do to him. There's somebody I need to call... I need my phone."

Dwight retrieved it from the night stand. Edith had emptied his jacket in the hopes that she could repair it, but when she saw how badly it had been scorched, she was forced to discard it. "Do you want some privacy?" Dwight offered.

Dean shook his head. "You're in this too, Dwight; you might have to take care of some of this stuff."

Bobby answered.

"Bobby, it's Dean."

Bobby Singer never expected a mere socail call from the Winchesters. "Uh oh, what's wrong now?"

"Bad salt & burn; Sam's out wandering around with some pissed off spirit in him. We're up in Nova Scotia, Canada."

Bobby paused, forming a mental map of their location. "You sound like shit, Dean, I can barely hear you. What else is going on?"

"I'm fine, Bobby, it's nothing."

That was more than Dwight could take. He snatched the phone from him. "Sir, my name's Dwight Croscup. Our young friend and his brother were helping my family with what apparently is an angry ghost. It went bad, I'm afraid. Dean here is very sick; got some burns, broken bones and such, and the young lad is playing host to a very unhappy woman's spirit, so it seems. He's been wandering out there for several days."

Bobby appreciated the candor. "I see. Thanks for the real story, I rarely get that from him."

Dwight handed the phone back to a glowering Dean, who continued. "Anyway, Bobby, here's the thing. She was buried two hundred years ago with a sort of witch bottle with stuff in it that seems to be a strong link to her, and to her kid, who's messing people up somewhere else right now." He paused again to cough and catch his breath. "We were trying to salt and burn. Sam picked up the bottle, and that was it; she was suddenly in him. I don't know what to do now; do we keep on with the burn? Can it hurt Sam?"

Bobby was silent for a moment. "Burial bottle…that's pretty rare. She must have wanted to stay near, stay connected… But it seems to be the key, so my guess would be to destroy it first; it should break that link, and then finish your burn. Can't see Sam getting any hurt if you do that, but this is pretty unusual."

"A lotta 'should's and 'maybe's, Bobby..."

"Sorry, Dean, not like there's a how-to manual for this crap; you know that."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks, man. I'll keep in touch."

"Wait! If I leave right now I can be there in a day and a half. Can you hold off 'til then?"

"I...I don't think so, Bobby. I have to find him, now. I don't know what this is doing to him... By the time you get here, this'll be done with, so don't come out. But just...stay near a phone, ok? This whole thing is a strange one...not exactly sure what I'm doing here."

Bobby knew he was right. Better he should stay in contact, with his wealth of books at hand, should Dean need guidance, rather than wasting time on the road. "Ok, if that's what you want. I'll be here when you need, so keep me posted. ..And Dean; for god's sake, take care of yourself! You're useless to him if you're half dead!"

Dean sighed wearily. "Seeya, Bobby."

Dwight pulled up a chair and sat, clearly expecting to be informed, but Edith had entered with her broth. "Dean, dear; drink this, it's very good."

He knew that the fastest way to be rid of the old doll was to do as he was told. With his hands wrapped, it was too awkward, he had to allow her to feed him. But wounded pride aside, it really was the best soup he'd ever tasted, and he felt better after he'd finished. At least that was a bonus over old Tom's bland efforts in the kitchen. She promised tea later, checked his sweaty forehead with a worried frown, and brushing his cheek sadly, she left them.

Dwight turned to him. "Ok, Mr. Winchester, tell me what to do now."

Dean froze, and looked down, shocked to hear him use his real name. "You mean Edwards…"

"No sir, I do not. " Dwight stared pointedly at him.

Dean met his eyes, wondering, then realizing with dismay that he'd been babbling again. "Aw crap!"

"Yes, you do talk a fair bit in your sickness, son. We have some things to discuss; you and Sam, and I. But that's for later. Right now, I'm your eyes and hands and legs, so what do I have to do?"

The comforting warmth of the broth made him sleepy, Dean was fading fast. He had to admit that he needed Dwight to do this. "The bottle at the bottom of the hole...Sam had it in his hands, he dropped it back down there. You have to find it and smash it, all its contents. But for god's sake, don't touch it! Use a rock, or a tool. After that, soak her bones with the kerosene, dump the salt over everything and burn them. She'll be released. But we need to find Sam first; if the burn looks like it's hurting him, we can stop it before it's too late. You can't do both, and we don't have any more time. I've gotta...I need to go with you, Dwight."

Dwight sat back and looked at him. This was crazy; he was weak and sick, barely able to stay alert. "Son, I can't let you get up, it'll be the death of you."

"C'mon, Dwight, you know I'm right; you saw what we're dealing with!"

Dwight rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore his persistent headache. He sighed in defeat. "Christ almighty, that old woman's gonna kill me. Fine, you win; it's your brother and your life. But at least rest for a couple of hours first, alright? I'm a lot older and softer than I used to be; I can't haul you around again if you drop!"

Dean reluctantly agreed, and the moment he did so, he let go and drifted off. Dwight leaned back in his chair, watching as the young man's pale features relaxed.

"Damn!" he muttered. "Damn damn damn..."

It seemed Hannah really had no concept of the fact that it was different for her now. Her transfer into Sam was unintentional; she had spent centuries as a spirit. It had been a choice; she'd carefully and secretly arranged it before expediting her demise by her own hand. Now she simply continued to do as she had always done since that day so long ago.

It used to be so, so blissful... reunited with her child, her Emeline. The two of them would float among the roses, chasing butterflies and dandelion fluff as they drifted by. With Emeline beside her, it was always warm and sweet and laughter-filled in the garden. They listened to the strangers in their house, giggling at their silly follies and concerns, playing harmless tricks on them, hiding little things. At night they would fly with the owls, following fireflies, and dancing with the moths in the silver moonlight as it played across the soft, velvet lawn.

When Emmy took sick and died, so long ago... Hannah couldn't bear to live alone again with her cold and loveless husband, and dreaded even more the thought of God's sterile, sinless, lifeless heaven after that. She wanted to be with her only source of happiness, her little girl—wherever and however that could be.

And God had been no help at all. Hannah had lived a righteous life, just as she was taught, just as was expected of her. But when she turned to him to save her child, he abandoned her... and he abandoned her child, and all the children who were struck down by fever that terrible season. When she and Benjamin had laid that tiny little coffin into the cold , black ground, the sun itself was buried with her. The priest droned his hollow, and soulless words, offering nothing of solace. She'd dutifully listened to his sermons and directives every Sunday; oh, how she hated him-so pious, and so useless.

And Benjamin. Good Benjamin, -devout, industrious, callous Benjamin. He'd dusted the earth from his hands, taken her home, demanded his supper and took his husbandly right at the end of the day, telling her he would replace the dead one with a proper, strong boy next. His casual indifference to her trauma was the last straw. The next morning, Hannah sought out a more reliable source of solace.

She knew of the old midwife at the edge of the wood. They all did, the women of the village. You went to her if you had ills that the pompous doctor had no real idea how to treat. You saw her when you needed relief from things too shameful to discuss. And if you had nine starving children and knew an unwanted tenth was coming…

And you went to her if you had deeper needs, for which no relief could be had through god or man. Hannah went to her, and found her comfort.

Sam could see her anguish. He sort of felt it, understood it; like a faint memory of a book he'd read long ago. But his tether was growing thin, stretched long, like a spider's silk. She stayed in her place, ignoring the needs of the body she now called home. She felt the hunger, the thirst, and the cold, but they were nothing compared to the torment of her mind. She ignored those other pains. Sam could see his physical form growing weaker, shivering with the cold, but he couldn't do anything to help himself. He was vaguely aware of the passage of days, but keenly aware of the fact that he hadn't seen Dean since...

And Dean hadn't come for him. He was sure he knew why. He was dead…burned to death by his own brother's hand. And soon enough, as Hannah allowed him to waste away; Sam would be dead too.

Some two hours after his conversation with Dwight, Dean awoke. He tried to call him, but he had very little voice, and Dwight was down the hall. He could hear the television. He could bang something to alert him, but that would bring Edith running and he wanted to avoid that. Instead, he looked his room over for some clothing, and seeing the freshly laundered stack, he slowly and carefully raised himself from his bed, sitting on the edge for a moment until the roar in his ears died down to a hiss. He was wearing a damp tee-shirt, but he found it too much of a challenge to pull off, so he layered on a few shirts, not even attempting to button them with his painfully bandaged hands, and took his time getting a hooded fleece over his head and shoulders. It was nearly impossible to raise his right arm now, when he did so, a sharp, shooting pain lanced through his back and side. It was worse than before; he realized he must have done some fresh damage to his fracture in the fall. Worry about it later-he thought.

The jeans were a challenge, but he got them done up finally. All he needed were his shoes. He swallowed a handful of the aspirin that were left on the night table, and very slowly crept down the hallway. Peeking round the corner, he could see Edith and Dwight and the TV. Thankfully, Edith was turned away from him, but Dwight was sitting where he could get his attention, if he was lucky. Sweating with dizziness, he sat on the bottom step of the stairs and waved silently, finally catching his eye.

Dwight stood, stretched, and excused himself, saying he was going to get some air. He knew the old dear would likely nap in front of the television; it was usually the case. He often woke her gently after her programs had long been over. He met Dean and guided him out into his truck.

"Look, are you sure you're up to this?" he demanded.

Dean was hunched in the passenger seat, looking anything but. "Dwight, don't worry about me, alright? When you need me, I'll be there!" he growled.

"Ok then." Dwight gunned it to heat the interior and proceeded out to the Rose cottage.