EPILOGUE

Four days later . . .

Dean grinned triumphantly across the breakfast table at his brother. "Told you I could eat more pancakes than you, squirt."

Sam rolled his eyes, not upset at all. "You could eat more pancakes than Bigfoot, dude."

Dean chortled and ran his last forkful of pancake around his plate, soaking up syrup. Stuffing it into his mouth, he flashed a messy, goofy grin at Sam, syrup and fried bread oozing out around the edges.

Sam mimed gagging, then laughed out loud when Dean picked up his plate and licked off the last of the syrup.

Their father entered the kitchen, Jim close behind him and Dean put the plate down with a clatter, wiping his mouth off quickly.

"Aren't you two done yet?" John said impatiently.

"Sorry, Dad." Sam hurriedly drained the last of his milk. "We're done."

"Yeah," Dean echoed. "Just gotta wash up."

"I'll take care of the dishes," Jim said, giving a fond pat to Dean's shoulder.

John frowned and shook his head. "I don't want to put any more work on you. The boys can clean up."

"I know they can," Jim said patiently, "but you need to get going. It's a long drive to Indio."

John's dark brows drew together stubbornly, and Jim sighed, exasperated. "John, that ghost isn't going to salt and burn itself. I think I can survive cleaning up my own kitchen."

John's brow cleared. "Thanks, Jim." He nodded to his sons. "Let's get going, boys. Daylight's wasting."

Following the Winchester family out of the kitchen, Jim chuckled inwardly. A hunt trumps dirty dishes, every single time.

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Jim had made up a big bag of road food for them. When Jim handed it into the Impala, Dean dug eagerly into it, crowing in delight when he unearthed a package of thick, meaty sandwiches.

Sam snatched it away and put it on the floor in the back seat. "Jeez, Dean, you just ate!"

"Yeah, but they're Jim's roast beef sandwiches," Dean said mournfully. "Roast beef!" He made a quick move to go for the bag and squawked loudly when Sam blocked him again.

Jim watching affectionately as the two boys squabbled.

Neither John nor Sam had said anything, but he knew there'd been some kind of rapprochement. There'd also been a lot of shouting when Dean finally made his way downstairs, but after that storm had blown over, the air between the three Winchesters was a lot lighter.

John was back in his usual obsessive hunter/seeker mode, Dean was positively giddy now that the whole Mitch mess was behind them, and Sam was smiling again. It was true that the younger boy had had his moments of darkness over the last few days, but there was none of the soul-deep repressed rage from when he'd been hunting Mitch; none of the bone-crushing grief of that horrible day at the warehouse.

John climbed into his tall truck, started the ignition and blew a few short blasts on his horn. When he saw he had his sons' attention, he threw a wave at Jim and pulled away down the driveway.

"See ya, Jim!" Dean grinned and started the Impala, at the same time turning on the radio and blasting it high.

As the car started to move, Sam leaned hastily over his brother's lap, drawing a loud complaint from Dean, and poked his dark head out the window. "Bye, Jim!"

Jim raised his hand. "Good-bye, boys. Call me if you need me!"

"We will, preacher," Dean answered. "Shit, Sammy, get offa me before you smoosh something important!"

Sam grinned. Before he moved back to his side of the car, he said to Jim, "Thanks for everything. I'll call, okay?"

"Anytime, son."

At last, with a final chorus of shouted good-byes, the Impala pulled away from the rectory and after the big truck, which was rumbling impatiently at the bottom of the drive. Jim kept watching until both vehicles were out of sight.

Once they were gone, he went back inside.

The house was quiet again. He drew in a deep breath and stood for just a moment, enjoying the blessed silence, knowing it would only last until the next Ladies Auxiliary Meeting, or until the next hunter came limping to his door.

Then, leaving the wreck of a kitchen to itself for now, he went into his study and booted up his computer. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and opened it to scan over the list of college names written in Sam Winchester's sprawling handwriting.

With a heavy sigh, both for the bravery of the boy and the pain it would inevitably bring to his whole family, Jim typed in the website address for Stanford College and waited for the site to load.

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My thanks to everyone who read and supported this story. I loved writing it and it means a lot to me that so many people enjoyed it right along with me.