I'm so sorry that it has been forever and a day since I updated, but you can blame my teachers, not me. An hour and a half of math a night topped off with science, history, english, french, and volleyball practices. Blech. I'm not asking for pity since I'm sure that there are hundreds of other people with it worse than me homework wise, but I am asking for forgiveness. Remember to review. - Heather XOXO

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. I do live kinda close to where the film it though. I live maybe an hour away from Burnaby and an hour and a half away from Vancouver, and according to a very reliable website, that it where they film it. So yeah. Pretty rad. :)

Chapter Ten: (The big 1-0!) A Grand Finale

Dean wiped a bead of sweat off of his forehead with a dirty sleeve, and leaned on the handle of his shovel for a minute. His fingers were slippery from sweat, and he was afraid that with one violent thrust of the shovel, it would fly out of his hands and hit his little brother on the head.

Sam was lying against the barn wall, his face turning a deathly shade of motel room gray. Although he was holding a torn piece of fabric from one of Dean's shirts against his arm wound, blood was still oozing out of it faster than he could mop it up. As Sam lay there, his face became paler and paler until Dean glanced over and noticed the extreme change in Sam's skin tone. Dean's face automatically took on a look of brotherly concern when he saw the expression of pain on his baby brothers face.

"Thats it." He said with conviction as he moved over to Sam again, dropping the shovel. "I'm taking you to a hospital."

"The hell you are!" Sam cried indignantly, ignoring the strain that talking put on his sternum. "Keep digging. You have to."

"What I have to do is get your arm stitched up, or get you some medical attention. I'm willing to bet my car on the fact that that knife was rusty or something. Your wound is probably infecting as we sit here talking." Dean told him.

"Yeah, and you know what else is happening as we sit here talking? Day. The sun isn't gonna wait for us, Dean." Sam gritted his teeth against the jarring pain that speaking sent through his whole body. Crimson blood continued to drip from his arm like it was some sort of fountain.

Dean hated to admit it, but his brother was right. The sun waited for no one. Not even the almighty Dean Winchester. "Fine, I'll dig. You've gotta hold that bandage tighter though, or you're gonna loose all your blood. I'd hate for that to happen."

Sam put his hand over his heart in mock surprise. "I didn't think you cared so much Dean."

"About you? Hell no. I'm just thinking about what a terrible mess your dead carcass is gonna leave behind." Dean grinned and grabbed up the pickaxe in his left hand. Man was it a good thing that he was quite ambidextrous, cause as much as he hated to admit it, daylight was fast approaching and he needed both hands and both weapons to dig up the floor. Dean sneaked another glance at Sam while his little brother wasn't looking. Sam was shaking and pale, and the elder Winchester was as frightened as hell. Were arm wounds supposed to bleed as much as Sam's was? For gods sake, he looked on the verge of passing out from blood loss, and it was only a wound on his arm. Dean cursed himself for not remembering more about anatomy, and whether there were any major veins or arteries in the bicep region.

"So, Sammy..." Dean began. He trailed off though, not knowing what to say. All he knew was that he needed to keep Sam awake and talking. Keep it so that the blood was pumping through him. His brother didn't answer right away, so Dean tore up another chunk of the cement flooring. "Hey, I think I've got something here." Still no reply. "Sammy?" Dean finally looked over at his brother. Sam was still in the same position as he had been in before, but his head was leaning back on the wall and his eyes were closed. The slow rise and fall of Sam's chest assured Dean that he was still breathing, but he must have passed out from the pain or from the massive blood loss. "Damn arm wounds..." Dean muttered to himself as he hopped over the hole he had made in the floor and knelt down beside his brother.

Sam was trembling, and his skin was flushed under Dean's cool hands. "Shit, Sam!" Dean cried out as he tried to revive his brother. Sam gave a quiet moan, but his eyes refused to open. "She must have dipped the knife in something." Dean said to himself. He slapped Sam hard on the face, and it seemed to do the trick.

"What... What the hell was that for?" Sam's voice was tiny and far away, as though he had just woken up from a deep deep sleep.

"Stay awake." Dean commanded.

"... I... I don't think I can. Don't feel so good..."

"I don't care. Melanie infected the knife with something I think. Lets get you up. You are going to a hospital and thats final." Dean went to pick Sam up.

"Don't you dare." Sam stopped him by hitting his hand away weakly. "You... You are gonna find those god forsaken bones... If it takes you forever and a day. Dig!"

Dean almost smiled at his little brother's determination. The almost smile turned into a definite frown though, when Sam's head tilted back again, and he was unconscious. Dean was at a crossroads. He could either stop the digging and take his brother to a hospital right away, or he could keep on digging and put Sam's life in danger. Not that their lives weren't already in danger, but still... What would Sam do? Dean spared his brother a concerned glance. Sam would dig. Yeah, he would definetly dig.

Dean's arms swung up and down as he attacked the floor with new determination. Adrenaline pumped through him and propelled his arms up and down like miniature windmills. A dull metallic clunk rang out in the barn as Dean felt the pickaxe hit something hard.

Breathing heavily, Dean bent down to inspect the object that he had struck. It was some kind of chest, made of cherry wood and bound with thin strips of matte brass. "Jackpot." He murmured, using all of his might to pull up the chest.

Dean swiveled his head around when he heard a noise that sounded like someone knocking over a metal garbage can. Or something knocking over a metal garbage can. He jumped up and brought the axe so that it was in front of him, offering very minimal protection.

The barn door swung open with a terrible clunk. A cold gust of wind blew in from outside, ruffling Dean's short hair. Hair that was in dire need of a good shampoo, Dean noted as he raised a hand and felt the dirty blonde locks that were covered him cobwebs.

A shadow grew on the opposite wall, until it was huge, seemingly larger than life. The silhouette was ominous, very tall and black as night, and Dean could make out the shape of some kind of scythe in it's hands.

Dean frantically attempted to open the chest, but years of disuse had made it stiff and rusty, and no matter how hard Dean tried it would not open. Dean's fingers, shaking and crackling with Sam's dried blood struggled in a frenzied manner with the old latch. "Why today?" Dean asked the sky. The sky, of course, had no answer for him.

The dark shadow drew closer, and Dean found it strange that he could not see an actual person yet, dead or undead. A low rumbling growl filled the chilly air, and Dean heard the pathetic lowing of a cow until it went silent.

The Heart Snatcher was here.

Dean had almost no time to salt and burn the bones of William Friedmont, and he couldn't open the chest. Un-fucking-believable.

He felt in his back pocket for the small plastic lighter that he saved specially for these occasions. Too bad it wouldn't do much good here unless... Unless Dean salted and burned the whole chest. That would probably work right?

Dean snapped open the lighter but stopped short when he realized one very small but important detail. He had no salt.

"You've got to be kidding me!" He screamed, regardless of the fact that there was a crazed cannibal spirit munching on a cow heart two box stalls over. Dean had to find a way out. He had to find a way to get the salt and get back. He looked around the barn and spotted an open window that he could probably squeeze through. But what about Sammy? Dean couldn't just leave him there, he was injured and unconscious. Dean was a fast runner though. He knew where the car was and he knew how to get there. He could probably have the salt in two minutes, tops. He had never taken the time to cut out a cow's heart and eat it so he didn't know how much time he had, but he did know that he had to risk it.

With a flying leap, he grabbed onto the high windowsill and crawled through the tight squeeze that was the window itself. Once outside, he ignored the prickling pain that the cold sent up his bare arms and sprinted straight for the car. He pulled out an economy bag of salt and was back in the barn in a minute. One minute to late though.

The spirit of William Friedmont had obviously grown tired of his cow carcass and decided to go for a human victim. The horrible black cloaked figure was hunched over Sam, almost cradling the younger Winchester in his arms as he sucked the red blood off of Sam's arm.

"Hey!" Dean cried out indignantly as he hopped down from the windowsill. "Get away from him!"

The spirit made a hissing sound and turned around. Dean gulped. So he hadn't though his plan out all the way, so what? All he new was that he had to get that thing off of his brother.

The spirit dropped Sam like a sack of potatoes and lurched over to Dean. Dean jumped out of the way and the spirit came at him again, this time brandishing the razor sharp scythe.

Dean found himself pinned down, and he kept his knees up at his his chest to stop the spirit from completely blocking off his circulation. Damn that spirit was heavy! He could see its face under the dark hood; it had beetle black eyes and skin as sallow as candle wax. It's bloody lips were stretched into a menacing snarl, and it had a large gaping hole in its drawn cheek.

The scythe was swung, and it skimmed Dean's cheek, drawing a minimal amount of blood. "Oh HELL no! That is gonna scar my face! You are so gonna pay!" Dean kicked up and the spirit went flying off him. With another lunge the Heart Snatcher came flying at him. With a clink, Dean threw the lighter and the bag of salt on the chest, and the whole thing went up in flames. The only problem was that the fire and salt had to burn through a couple layers of wood before it got to the actual bones. That gave Dean another minute or two with the crazed cannibal Heart Snatcher. Yippee.

"Dean..." He heard a feeble voice behind him. Dean looked back and saw Sam holding out the pickaxe with trembling hands. "Hold him off..." Was all he said before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

When William decided to come at Dean, again, Dean was ready. He swung the pickaxe into the beast's chest, and although he knew that it wouldn't kill him, it did hold him off until the bones in the chest went up in flames along with the spirit.

Dean watched with no remorse as the horrible monster's face disfigured and it collapsed into a pile of bones on the ground. Sitting on top of the pile of bones was a small heart, made of black velvet.

"Sammy? Sammy, you okay?" Dean rushed over to his little brother and hoisted him up.

Sam rolled his head around and groaned. His eyes stayed shut, and Dean carried him to the impala and laid him down length ways in the back seat.

"Stay with me Sammy!" Dean commanded as he pulled out of the Hannigan's driveway and onto the street. Sam's only reply was a moan, and that was all until the brothers made it back to the motel. Dean picked up Sam again and carried him in.

There was a different woman working the front desk, and this one stared scrutinizingly at Sam and Dean until Dean said:

"We were out at a party. Pretty wild one. This guy can not hold his liquor, let me tell you." It was a dumb explanation and Dean knew it, but, at the risk of sounding rude, he didn't really think that this chick at the desk of the motel deserved a rational answer.

Once in the room, Dean laid Sam down on the bed and opened up the medical kit. Grabbing out antiseptic and a needle and thread, he cleaned out Sam's wound and stitched it up.

Sam was jolted awake by the jarring pain of the sizzling cleanser against his gash, his dark eyes flew open and he was panting.

"Good to see you're awake, buddy." Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

"Did you... Did you get him?" He managed to squeak out.

"Yep. And now you have to rest. I'm taking you to a hospital tomorrow."

"No hospital."

"Yes hospital." Dean said. "You're going whether you want to or not. Now sleep, cause I'm going to and I don't want to have to listen to you whined all night. I had a rough day."

Sam smiled weakly. Dean was still Dean. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a Tylenol induced slumber.

Dean lay down on the bed next to him, but did not fall asleep right away. He stay awake for about an hour thinking about how close he came to losing his little brother today, how close he came to losing himself. Still though, he loved it. He wouldn't give up hunting for anything.

Epilogue coming soon, I pinky promise. Just hold tight! Remember to review.