A/N: Well, here it is---the final chapter! Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing, it really means so much to me. And a HUGE thank you to Mary T., for being such an awesome beta and pushing me through those writer's blocks that I encounter so often. Luv you, girl:)

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Chapter 11

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Night had fallen. The moon's light cast a glow over the rolling hills outside Grace's house, and thick clouds slowly moved in the sky, growing darker and larger as time went by; it smelled like rain, it felt like rain, it was a sure thing that rain would come. And soon. And then, just as the old, black Impala pulled into the driveway, the sky opened up and drops of rain began to bead up on her waxed body and moisten the ground; Sam opened the passenger's side door and gripped Dean's arms, lifting him out of the car with very little help from his brother. Dean muttered some kind of protest, but Sam just shrugged it off and continued aiding him up to the front door, where Grace had appeared. Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the brothers as they trekked up the frontyard, arms wrapped around one another; Grace hurried forward, sneaking an arm around Dean's back in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on Sam. Too tired to fight back, Dean relaxed against her, using her as leverage to pull himself up the steps and stumble into the quiet, warm house, where the only sound was the gentle rain on the rooftop.

The sound lured Dean to sleep once he had laid down, and in no time his breathing had evened out and was deep, soothing; Grace placed her hand on the small of Sam's back and guided him to the guest bedroom, noting the dull look in his eyes and the shortness of breath, sure signs of exhaustion. He plopped down on the bed, bouncing slightly on the supple mattress; wordlessly, Grace knelt on the floor and took off his mud-caked boots, tossing them aside without a care, then slipped off his socks and helped him out of his wet jacket. Still completely silent, Sam scooted back on the bed and Grace sat down next to him, ignoring her trembling fingers as she unbuttoned his shirt; he stared at her, comprehension in his eyes but still "out of it", off in his own world. She imagined he had been through hell all day, trying to rescue Natasha---she wondered if the girl had survived---and battling Gein. He must be gone, she thought to herself, they never would've given up till he was dead.

Not even asking, she left and returned with a glass of water and a few Aspirin, having noticed the way Sam favored his one knee and rubbed it gingerly when he thought she wasn't looking; as he swallowed the pills, she placed her hands on either side of his knee and pressed gently, feeling for swelling and trying to figure out just what was wrong with it. Sam instinctively pulled away from the pain, but restrained himself and allowed her to continue; she quickly figured out that it was twisted, most likely badly sprained, but there didn't seem to be any torn muscles. She didn't know what had happened to it, but she guessed that Sam was very lucky the damage wasn't worse.

Patting Sam's shoulder, she rose to leave the room, but he stopped her by grabbing her wrist; their eyes met, his were full of gratitude, she acknowledged them by dipping her head slightly and running her fingers through his thick hair. He closed his eyes, lying back down and resting his head on the soft pillow; Grace stared down at him for a moment, then walked through the doorway and into the other room, checking on Dean before heading upstairs and crawling into her own bed. She fell asleep to the sounds of the deep, rolling thunder and the pitter-patter of the rain.

-----

Dean grimaced and let out a tiny groan as Grace's nimble fingers stitched up the minor wound in his abdomen; luckily, it wasn't too deep and would heal in time, but it still hurt like hell and in no time sweat that had been beading up at his browline was running down his flushed face. He lay stretched out across the couch, one arm draped over his eyes to hide the pain shown in them as Grace knelt on the floor and worked as quickly as she could; Sam leaned against the wall over by the doorway to the living room, watching them without making a sound.

"Almost done," Grace said, softly; finishing off the last stitch and trying to ignore his pained grunt, the process had been agonizingly slow and it hurt her everytime she had to hurt him. She hadn't even realized she started to care so much about the brothers. "You really shouldn't have let this go all night."

"It wasn't even bleeding till this morning," Dean offered, his voice more of a grunt.

"Uh-huh."

Dean fidgeted uncomfortably when Grace yanked as gently as she could to finish, then snipped the thread with a tiny pair of scissors; he nodded his thanks to you, not trusting his voice enough to attempt to speak. Grace smiled understandingly, patting his hand and standing up, carrying away the pan full of bloody water and the supplies she had used to patch both boys up; they had done a half-assed job of it while still in the Impala, but she insisted on making sure they were okay.

"How're you feeling, Sam?" she asked, pausing when she reached the younger brother.

"Sore," Sam admitted, truthfully. "It'll take a little while before I'm running anywhere. But it's nothing serious."

"You two took one hell of a beating."

Sam smirked. "That's how it goes sometimes." He shrugged. "A lot of the time, I guess."

"Well, Dean will be fine," Grace said, beginning to walk toward the bathroom, Sam at her side, "as long as you two take it easy. Something that seems like torture for you guys."

"We don't like sitting around," Sam said, "and we can't afford to." He thought of Dean's face plastered over WANTED papers, and Agent Hendrickson sneering down at them as he swore to see them rot behind bars. "I'm afraid we're gonna have to run, the cops are probably on the look out already for Daniel and Scott, seeing as how there was a dead body in our motel room."

Grace frowned. "What about those spirits you saw at Mendota?" she questioned, "are you just going to . . . leave them there?"

"They never tried to hurt us," Sam explained, "I think they were trying to warn us. Help us find Gein in the only way they could. They wanted revenge, justice for their murders." He folded his arms over his chest, hesitating for a moment and rubbing his aching wrist tenderly. "I doubt they'll hurt anyone, they've most likely moved on. But if you have any problems, you know you can call us."

"I---" Grace stopped, taking a moment. "I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done. You two . . . you're really amazing." She laughed when Sam's face flushed a light shade of pink, and he ducked his head. "No, seriously. Thank you," she added, touching his sleeve with her free hand.

"I'm glad we could help," Sam said, dropping his hand and placing it over her's on his arm, " . . . and that you're okay."

His touch brought a chill to her body but also an intense heat, her eyes dropped down to stare at his long fingers touching the back of her small hand; he had large, rough hands with white scars across the skin and hard callouses on his palms. They were powerful. She knew they could be used as weapons, but she also suspected they could be used incredibly gently; she imagined the feel of them running down her body and caressing her face----

Flushing awkwardly, she pulled away from his touch. "Sam, I---" her voice broke suspiciously, and she struggled to get it under control. "Um, I've been meaning to ask you . . . when you were fighting Gein---after the accident---I saw a woman in the forest. She was watching us."

Sam frowned, twisting his head slightly in confusion. "A woman? What'd she look like?"

Grace closed her eyes momentarily, remembering the face, the way she held herself and gazed upon the fight like it was a form of entertainment to her. "She had long, blonde hair," she recalled, "and she was tall . . . thin. Pretty." She looked up when Sam made an angry grunt and abruptly turned around, the muscles in his back tensed and released as he took in deep breaths, visibly upset. "Sam?"

" . . . Ruby," the word was uttered so softly, and threateningly, Grace almost didn't hear.

"Who's Ruby?" she asked.

Sam sighed, turning back to face her, he put his hands on her arms, squeezing slightly in reassurance. "Don't worry about it," he said, "and please, don't tell Dean. I'll . . . uh, I'll take care of it."

"What 'it'?" Grace shoved his hands down. "Sam, what is going on? Who is she?"

"I said I'll take care of it!" Sam snapped, his voice tense but not harsh.

"Well, that's not good enough!" Grace hissed, glancing across the room to where Dean was sleeping on the couch, making sure they hadn't disturbed him. "I've been through hell with you, I think I deserve some honesty."

"This doesn't have anything to do with you," Sam replied, "or this case, okay? This is about me." He took a step toward the door, but was unable to hide the flinch that flickered over his face when his knee cried out for rest; Grace's thin brows raised, but despite her anger and frustration, she still felt a twinge of pain at seeing him suffer.

"You're hurt," she said, her voice gentler, "don't you think you should wait this out a day or two? Whatever 'this' is?"

"Ruby's not going to hurt me," Sam said, confidently, as he shouldered into his jacket. "I'll be back in a little while. Tell Dean---" he paused, looking over Grace's shoulder to his brother "---tell him I went out to look around the institute one more time. He'll be pissed that I went alone, but he'll believe it." With those words, he opened the door and stepped outside, walking briskly to the Impala as Grace watched him through the screen door, trying to ignore how the cold air felt against her skin and the sickening, sinking feeling in her gut.

-----

Metallica blared from the cassette player in the car as Sam raced down the two-lane road, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while cradling his broken wrist to his chest; Grace's revelation that Ruby had been spying on him didn't exactly come as a surprise---he knew she had to be watching him---but it that didn't lessen his anger any. He was sick of being pulled around by some demon, acting like a puppet, it was time she told him just what the hell she expected of him already.

It's for Dean, he reminded himself, just keep thinking of him.

But that thought did little to ease his fears. What if Ruby wanted him to hurt someone? What if she wanted him to hurt Grace? Or let Peter go without punishment? What if she had been working alongside Peter the whole time? Crying out in frustration, his brought his fist down on the dashboard while the car steered itself down a long, straight stretch of road.

"What do you want from me!?" he shouted.

He'd thought all his troubles concerning demons interested in him had died along with Azazel, that he could finally forget about that troubling revelation his father had given Dean over a year ago and move on with his life, focusing on hunting and saving Dean rather than worrying about some hidden agenda. What could he possibly have that made Ruby so interested in him anyway? His powers were gone, he hadn't had any visions or been able to move any dressers since Dean killed Azazel months ago. He had nothing to offer her.

An open field ahead showed itself to be a good meeting place for him, somewhere that no one would see the two of them, or hear them; he knew she would be able to find him, she seemed to have the ability to show up out of nowhere if she so desired. Muscles flexing with anticipation, he pulled the Impala off to the side of the road and stepped outside, instantly shivering and pulling his coat tighter around him. He slammed the door of the Impala shut, shaking the entire car, then leaned against it and folded his arms, glaring around the open field, waiting for her to appear. A minute passed. Then another. Growing impatient, he took a deep breath and shouted, his voice carrying over the countryside: "Ruby! Where the hell are you!?"

"Don't be such a drama queen, Sam. I'm right here."

He whirled around to snarl at Ruby, who appeared unimpressed by his display of anger, merely quirking one eyebrow and opening her mouth slightly in a smile. "What's the matter, Sammy-boy?" she asked, "things are going great for you! Got rid of Ed . . . you and your brother are alive . . . " The wind blew her tiny jacket back and she gripped it with her long fingers, pulling it across her chest; Sam narrowed his eyes, looking her up and down for a moment in a slow, unnerving kind of way.

"I know you were watching us," he said.

"Of course I was," Ruby replied, "I always watch you. How do you think I knew you were here?" She opened her arms, palms up, and gestured around the field. "Now---what do you want?"

"You said there was something I needed to do. Tell me what it is."

"So anxious," Ruby said, stepping forward so she was close to Sam, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin and his breath in her face. "I like it," her voice jumped in surprise on the last word when Sam pushed him away from her, causing her to stumble back a few steps, her gray-blue eyes flashing black for a moment as anger bubbled up within her. But she swallowed her pride when she saw the murderous look in Sam's eyes. He was done waiting. "All right," she said, gathering herself, "I'll tell you what you need to do . . . to save your brother."

-----

Dean sat up when he heard the front door open and the wind outside came whooshing in, howling painfully; a second later, Sam's silhouette appeared in the doorway, dripping wet and out of breath. Dean's face contracted in a frown and he pushed himself off the couch to hurry over to his younger brother, gripping Sam's shoulders with his hands, and holding his gaze: "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" he demanded, fear spiking through his heart.

" . . . I'm fine, Dean." Sam's voice was dull, tired. He gently took Dean's hands and lowered them. "I just, uh, need to get some rest."

It was perfectly valid excuse, Dean knew, Sam was exhausted. Still . . . something wasn't right. But Sam wasn't willing to stick around and let him figure it out, he brushed by, heading into the dimly lit guest room; Grace stuck her head out from the kitchen, pushing her glasses up from her nose and watching Sam. She, too, seemed to notice the strain on the young man, how his shoulders were slumped and his face pale.

"What happened?" she asked, softly.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know," he sighed, "sometimes . . . " he trailed off, staring as the door shut behind Sam and he lost sight of his brother. "Sometimes he gets like this." Suddenly, his head ached. He brought his fingers up to his forehead and rubbed circles into it, trying to ease the tension induced pain that he felt there and behind his eyes; maybe Sam was just worn out, they had been on the job for awhile, and it felt like even longer. They'd also taken some nasty beatings lately. Those things alone gave Sam more than enough reason to feel a little out of sorts.

If only he could convince himself that's all it was.

In the guest room, Sam sank down onto the bed, weary and confused; Ruby's words had shocked him, and his reaction to them had shocked him even more. Could he do as she asked? Could he live with himself afterward? As a hunter he'd been forced to do many things he wasn't proud of, things that still haunted him in his dreams, but never had he . . . You have to do this! the voice inside him scolded, harshly. You can't let Dean down. He's sacrificed everything for you!

"I know," he growled, gripping the hair on each side of his head and squeezing it, he bent over and stared at the wooden floor, his thoughts and feeling conflicted. How could he sacrifice what set him apart from the things he hunted in order to save his brother? And what if Dean found out? How would he look at him? Sam knew his brother had his doubts ever since he brought him back from the dead, occasionally Sam would catch Dean looking at him with a strange expression on his face, almost as if he was looking at a stranger. How would he look at me if he ever found out? Would he hate me?

Of course, Sam knew that Dean would do anything to protect him---it didn't matter who he had to save, or kill, or team up with; if the price was Sam's life, Dean would go to hell and back to make sure he survived. Sam flinched as his own thoughts bombarded him. He is going to hell, you idiot. And that's why you have to do this! Now quit whining about it . . . and get the job done. Taking a steadying breath, he stood up and straightened his shirt, pulling down on it sharply, reminiscent of how his militaristic father used to act. His jaw was set in a firm line, his eyes smaller than usual, again showing his determination; he gritted his teeth and prepared himself for what he was about to do, then headed for the basement.

-----

It was damp and wet below the old house, the concrete the floor felt hard and unforgiving beneath Sam's boots as he stepped on, closer and closer to the sprawled figure of Peter, who remained tied up to the wall. It seemed as if every step Sam took echoed around the walls, ringing in his ears, he felt sure that Grace and Dean would hear him even upstairs; but it was too late to turn back now anyway, he had made up his mind. For Dean.

Peter's eyes opened into tiny slits, darting around the dark room for a second before focusing on Sam; for a moment his eyes held only hatred, but in the next, pure fear. He opened his mouth, clearly about to scream for help, but Sam lunged forward and smacked his hand over Peter's trembling lips, cutting off his air and silencing him before a sound was uttered. Outside, a flash of lightning lit the sky and a few seconds later a thunder clap boomed over the land; Peter's eyes widened, terrified, as he stared up at Sam, who hovered over him threateningly. Sam forced himself to remain still and strong in front of the man---his enemy---but his stomach felt like it was twisted and tied into a hundred knots, he swallowed the bile that rose into his throat. Do it now.

He reached behind his back and snatched a knife out of his belt, causing Peter to cry out from behind his firm hand; Sam ignored him as he placed the knife to the ropes binding Peter to the wall and began to saw away at them, till little by little the threads snapped and the rope fell to the floor, useless. For a moment, Sam saw hope in Peter's face, hope that he was going to let him go, that he would live; and in that moment, Sam felt sorry for him, despite all the evil he had done.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, unable to keep the tremor from his voice, "there's no other way."

Peter whimped, shaking his head fiercely. "P-p-please! God . . . don't . . . " he cried, his voice muffled.

The cry tore at every ounce of humanity Sam had in him, he felt hot tears spring into his eyes, stinging them; his entire body was shaking, not with any kind of anticipation or excitement, but with horror. Peter sobbed, his own tears rolling down his dusty cheeks and leaving streaks behind, he was hyperventilating and shaking so hard Sam was sure he would make himself ill; sure enough, Peter gagged, doubling over and falling to the floor, throwing up what little food they had given him in the past couple days. Sam watched him sorrowfully, suddenly feeling like throwing himself onto the floor and vomiting any food he had left in him as well; Peter dry heaved for a minute or so after he had puked out everything in his stomach, and soon he was just breathing heavily again, saliva stuck to his chin and his face almost buried in the small pile of vomit he had produced. He didn't seem to care. He was too busy whining and pleading in a pathetic, small voice that reminded Sam of a little child: "Please don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I swear!"

Sam shot a worried glance up the stairs to the closed door, hoping Peter's voice wouldn't carry; again, he slapped his hand over Peter's mouth, trying his best to ignore the whimpers and sobs that still made their way out from under his hand. He tried to convince himself that Peter was a monster, no better than any wendigo or demon he had hunted before, that he deserved to die just like all the women whose deaths he had been responsible for. But none of those reasons worked. There was just one.

"He's my brother," he said, quietly, suddenly feeling calm and assured of his decision.

From the tiny window of the basement, Sam saw lightning strike outside and suddenly smoke started billowing into the air, a tree had burst into flames and was creating an orange glow; chilled to the bone, Sam couldn't restrain the shiver that start at the base of his spine and ran up to his neck. He waited.

As thunder roared again, Sam jumped forward and slit Peter's throat, jumping away to avoid getting too much blood on him as it spurted up; Peter struggled, groping mindlessly at his throat and gasping for breath. There was so much blood . . . it ran down Peter's neck and soaked his shirt, pooling up on the floor around him; it was on Sam's hands, he realized, when he lifted them and stared at them in astonishment. It felt like an eternity had passed before Peter's strength finally left him, he twitched, convulsing in his final death throes, and then he was limp, his eyes still frozen in their wide-eyed, panic-stricken expression.

Another eternity passed before Sam was able to find his voice, and even then it cracked as he called his brother's name:

"Dean!"

He heard worried voices from outside. Grace and Dean. There were undoubtedly trying to subdue the fire that was ravaging the old tree in her frontyard, and over the roar of the storm, they would never hear his shouts. I need to clean this up. He winced at his own subconscious callousness, but also knew he was right; Dean and Grace would question the pile of vomit, for sure. He had to make it look like Peter had nearly escaped. It was all self-defense. He bent his knee and placed one foot in front of the other, but the second he put weight on it his legs buckled and crumbled under him; he crashed to the floor as the tears he'd been holding back flooded him and rushed forward, uncontrollable. Heartfelt sobs wracked his body and sent shudders all through him, he was on all fours, sobbing over Peter's dead body; over the bastard who had resurrected Gein, had helped him kill those innocent women. He wasn't worth anyone's tears. And yet Sam cried.

How long Sam spent down there he would never know, but eventually the tears stopped coming and he cried without them for a time; finally, his breaths stopped coming in short wheezes and he composed himself. Methodically, without much thought, he cleaned up the vomit and disposed of the paper towels he used, then headed upstairs just as Dean came bursting through the front door, his face red and drenched in sweat, his eyes tear-filled---no doubt from all the smoke---he started to speak, but stopped abruptly and started coughing instead. Sam rushed forward, nearly bumping into Grace as she came flying in from the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and a bucket full in the other.

"Where the hell were you?" she demanded, her voice high-pitched with anxiety.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean gasped, "we were looking for you---" he gulped the cool water, shooting Grace a thankful look.

"I---" Sam's voice cracked again, to his dismay, and the other two's immediate worry.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Peter . . . " Sam whispered, unable to finish.

Dean's eyes went dark. "Did he hurt you? What happened? Is he down there?" the words came rushing out, and then: "I'll kill the son of a bitch!"

"He's dead."

A long pause followed Sam's quiet words as Grace and Dean digested the information.

"I killed him."

-----

They burned Peter's corpse out in the woods behind Grace's house. No one would ever know of his involvement in the murders at the Mendota Institute, it was secret all three would carry to their graves; Grace still worried about the spirits of Gein's victims, but Dean once again assured her they were a phone call away if anything happened. "Or Bobby," he added, smiling.

Sam remained quiet the whole time they disposed of Peter's body, and then afterward when he helped Dean load up the Impala; he seemed to have taken the killing hard, but Dean would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't a little pleased to see it. He had worried about his brother ever since Azazel had whispered those words to him . . . How sure are you, that what you brought back is one hundred percent, pure Sam? The words had haunted him, and it didn't help to see his brother blowing away innocent people---even if they were possessed. But as Dean leaned against the Impala and watched Sam as he said goodbye to Grace, he couldn't help but feel sad to see his brother so disturbed.

"If you ever need anything---" Sam spoke.

"I know," Grace cut him off, "and I won't hesitate to call, believe me. Besides, I think that's the only way I'll ever convince you two to stop by for a visit!" Sam smiled, but there was no feeling behind the expression, and Grace knew it. She reached up and placed her hand on the young man's cheek. "You did what you had to do, Sam. No one thinks any less of you for it." A flicker in Sam's eyes . . . a slight change in his face . . . they were unrecognizable to Grace, but she saw them, and wondered. "I care about you, Sam," she said, her voice soft, "please . . . don't be a stranger."

Sam nodded, then stooped down and placed a sweet kiss on her cheek, muttering a hurried "Goodbye, Grace" before turning and walking down to the Impala; Dean raised his hand in a wave, and Grace returned it. Dean didn't miss the way her lips trembled and she blinked fiercely. Another time, Grace, he thought, sadly, another place. But not this one. Not for you two. He sat in the driver's seat across from Sam, giving his brother a look before turning the key and revving up the engine, then tearing out of the driveway, heedless of the dirt and gravel he kicked up. Grace stood still for a few minutes, watching the car till it disappeared from sight, trying to fight the longing ache she felt inside her as realization dawned and she knew she would never see either brother again.

Inside the car, Dean looked at Sam again, and felt his heart twist when he saw the pained expression on his face. "You know, Sam," he said, "Grace was right. You did the right thing back there, killing Peter. He didn't give you a choice."

"I know that, Dean." The tone of Sam's voice clearly told Dean to back off.

"I just . . . I don't like seeing you this way," he went on, "I mean, Peter was an evil bastard. He deserved what he got. And you couldn't just let him kill you." He paused. "Think of it this way, Sam . . . what if he'd been attacking me? You would've killed him then, and never even thought twice about it. There's no difference."

Sam swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. "I'd do anything to protect you, Dean," he said, almost too quietly for Dean to even hear. "Anything."

But Dean did hear. "I know that, Sam," he said, " . . . I know." The words gave him a horrible feeling for some reason, something he couldn't quite place; trying to forget about it, he leaned over and flipped on the tape player, drowning his thoughts in the sounds of Led Zeppelin.

He never saw Sam gazing at him out of the corner of his eye. Nor would he ever know his younger brother's thoughts as they drove through the backwoods, seeking out their next hunt.

Anything.

END.