When they got the bookshelves pushed back, the secret room was quiet, except for the sudden, unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking.

"Hell, don't shoot," Bobby said irritably. "It's just me."

Flipping the light switch on, he waited until Wiley released the hammer on his pistol, then went into the stifling little room and bent over his patient. Peeling back the bandage, he grunted. "Not too deep but it's gonna need some stitches. What kinda knife was it?"

The young man, not seeming to notice Dean hovering by the door, didn't answer Bobby, just took another swallow from the flask and watched, blue-grey eyes tired, as the old hunter dug into his meds box, pulling out a suture needle, thread, a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls. Watched as Bobby deftly wiped the wound clean, dropping used cotton balls onto the side table, and took up the needle and thread.

"What happened?" Bobby squinted as he guided the end of the thread through the needle's eye, then bent over Wiley's abdomen.

"Me and my partner - shit." Wiley clenched his teeth at the bite of the first stitch. "We had a – disagreement. He asked what I thought of his girl. When I told him, he knocked me on my ass and split."

"What the hell?" Eyes intent on his work, Bobby shook his head. "Man asks what you think of his woman, you tell him she's beautiful and leave it at that."

"Well, I would've, if he hadn't said he was going to marry her!" Wiley said defensively. He groaned, hands fisted at his sides as Bobby pushed through another few stitches. "Shit!"

"Settle down." Bobby set the last stitch, then put the suture needle down. Studying his work with satisfaction, he wiped it clean again, then covered the wound with a clean bandage and secured it with tape. "That don't explain how you wound up on the run from the cops."

Wiley just lay there on the cot trying to catch his breath. Finally, "Just bad fucking luck. While I was waiting for Jesse to come back, I heard about a couple of killings a few towns over. Sounded like our kind of thing so I went to check it out." He looked at Bobby ruefully. "Turns out cops get a little pissed off when they find you toasting somebody with a flamethrower."

"No shit!" Bobby gave a bark of laughter. "What was it? Ruguru? Vamp?"

"Never did figure it out," Wiley admitted. "Didn't think they'd be down with the whole monster story, though, so I ran. Couldn't get back to my car, so I had to steal one, and the piece of crap died on me."

"Well, it's lucky I saw you skulking around that gas station outside Freeman, or you'd be handcuffed to a hospital bed right about now." Bobby pulled Wiley's shirt closed, took hold of the boy's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "Long as we watch out for infection you should be okay." He straightened. "You hungry?"

Wiley shook his head wearily. "Not hungry. But I should call Jesse; let him know what's going on."

"I'll do it." Bobby looked down at his patient, brow furrowed, thinking. "You should probably stay in here tonight, kid, in case the sheriff comes back."

"Just so long as you leave the door open." Wiley looked around the room, into the shadowy corners. "It's like a tomb in here."

"I'll leave it open enough you can get out if you want to," Bobby reassured him. "If the sheriff comes back, one of us'll close it the rest of the way." He glanced toward the silent figure standing just inside the room. "Dean?"

"Sure, Bobby." Dean sidled a little further in. "Hey, Wiley."

"Dean." Wiley yawned.

"I'm gonna call Jesse," Bobby shot the handsome boy a knowing look. "I'm guessing there's more to this woman thing than what you let on?"

"Only enough to get me shot." Wiley's grin was mirthless. "You know me."

"I do." Bobby shook his head. "You really need to learn how to keep that thing in your pants, boy."

"Just - tell Jesse I'll call him in a day or two. He should be over his mad by then."

"Will do. You get some sleep." Bobby, about to head for the door, caught himself and dug around in the med kit, handing the young man a couple of pills. "Antibiotics," he said shortly.

Wiley took them with a nod of thanks and chased them back with a final swallow from the flask.

"I'll check back on you in a few hours," Bobby said.

"Thanks, Bobby. I owe you."

"Damn right you do." A final pat on his patient's shoulder and Bobby headed for the door.

Dean started to follow him, but Wiley said, "Dean - stick around a minute?"

When Dean nodded, Bobby frowned.

"Don't be too long," he said to Dean. "We need to talk."

Dean looked confused. Then his brain clicked in and he nodded, remembering the body behind the fence, which had seemed pretty important before Bobby came home lugging a bloodied Wiley, with a covey of cops hot on his trail.

Once Bobby had gone, Dean sat down on the chair next to the cot and stared at the older boy. "I didn't tell anyone," he said at last, a little defensively.

"Never thought you did."

"Oh. Good." Dean tried to think of a diplomatic way to phrase his question but came up empty. "Is it – are you –"

"Still psychic? Yeah. That kinda shit doesn't wash off."

"I guess," Dean said, embarrassed.

A shadow fell across Wiley's face and he suddenly looked very young. "At least my dad never knew."

Well, shit. Dean winced. "Sorry, man. I didn't know."

"No reason you should. Not like he went out in a blaze of glory."

"How?"

"Cancer. Last year."

"Oh." Dean cringed inwardly. Wiley's dad had been a total dickwad, but still. "That sucks."

"Yeah." Wiley's gaze came back to Dean again. "You could've said something to your Dad about me, and you didn't. If you had, word might've gotten back to my dad and he - anyway. Just wanted to say thanks." He yawned again. "Man, I'm beat," he mumbled.

"Do you need anything?"

Wiley shook his head and his eyes drifted shut.

Dean watched him for another minute – damn, Wiley – and then went to find his brother.