Dean stared at the darkened ceiling blankly, listening to Sam breathing.

Not yet.

He sighed and closed his eyes. His neck hurt like hell and it was starting to build pressure behind his eyes. It wasn't often that Dean got headaches, but whenever his neck got tweaked, it doubled up on him in his head.

It'd be so easy if he could just stand up and walk to the damn bathroom, but he didn't want to wake Sam up. It was force of habit more than anything, long years of being told not to wake the baby, and Dean, you know better to get up before Sam was really asleep, and, dammit son, I know you're horny, but there are good Goddamn reasons you can't sneak out of the house besides what's out there and besides you're too young and the reason's name is Sam.

Dean winced as his neck twinged again and tried to force his father's voice out of his head. He'd never really needed his dad making him feel bad for waking Sammy. Dean knew. He remembered those months after Mom had died, how Sam had cried for hours. Dad had barely been able to function, but he'd be there, late in the night, holding Sammy trying to soothe him. And then, one time... about six weeks after Mom had passed, Sammy had been crying and fussing for hours. Dad had paced up and down the length of the room for hours, singing songs in his broken, scratchy voice, telling stupid stories.

Dean had laid under the covers of the bed, listening. Everything had hurt so much then. He missed his mom. He missed his dad. Uncle Mike and Aunt Kate were cool, but he wanted Dad. He wanted...

"I can't... I can't do this," Dad had said suddenly, voice cracking. "Dean, you take care of Sammy."

And then Sammy was tossed lightly on the bed next to Dean and Dad was gone.

The was the first night Dean learned he could get Sam to sleep easier than anything. Of course, even then, Sam really didn't fall completely asleep until...

There was a long, soft exhale from Sam's cot. Dean held his breath until Sam rolled onto his stomach, one arm flopping limply over the side.

Thank God.

Dean eased himself out of the futon he was calling bed until this case was wrapped up. Pain knifed through his forehead, and he winced. Rubbing his neck, Dean moved with hunter-stealth across Rachel's apartment to her bedroom.

The door was closed. He couldn't risk knocking; even though Sam had passed the point where any movement on Dean's part would wake him, there's no way he'd sleep through Dean knocking on the door. So, he simply eased the knob open and slipped inside.

Rachel was sprawled across the bed, snoring very softly. Her computer was glowing as the screen saver was displayed, and her bed was covered in papers.

He smiled, shook his head, and immediately regretted the movement. His neck was aching something fierce.

The bathroom wasn't all girly like Dean had been afraid it would be. Not that Rachel was all that girly; young, but not girly.

He opened the medicine cabinet, looking for pain killers. Even though he'd stayed here before, he'd never really looked through her stuff. He hadn't refrained because he was a gentleman or anything; far from it. It was just that, the last time he'd been here, he'd been too intent on solving the case and getting the hell out of her life. And, earlier, she'd been awake. Now, though…

The medicine cabinet was mostly uninteresting: toothpaste and dental floss, face cream, some kind of acne medication, Star Wars band-aids, Midol, and some make-up. In one of the drawers next to the skink he found an unopened box of condoms, pain killers, a hair brush, hair spray, matches, five nickels and three pennies, some sparkly barrettes, a comb, a pair of keys to a bike lock or something, a sock, an empty roll of toilet paper, and a cat's collar.

Dean picked up the box of condoms and turned it over in his hands. He wondered if she used them often and this was just a refill of her supply. That idea bugged him. He hated that it did.

Troubled, Dean dropped the condoms into the drawer and pulled out the pain killers. After dry swallowing three, he turned the faucet on to help wash them down. He splashed water on his face, then left the bathroom.

Rachel had rolled onto her stomach while he'd been inside. She was almost on top of her computer now.

"Dork," Dean said under his breath. He went to the bed and tugged the laptop away. When he dragged his finger over the mouse pad, the screen saver dissolved and was replaced by her essay. He saved it, then turned closed down her writing program.

Rachel suddenly jerked awake. Her eyes flew open.

"It's just me," Dean said. He turned the laptop off.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sleepily rubbing her eyes.

"Saving the computer. You were about to drool all over it."

"I don't drool." She sat up and swiped her hand over her cheek.

"Well, then your brain is leaking." As Rachel stuck out her tongue, Dean closed the computer and carried it across the room to her dresser. He rubbed his neck as he walked back.

Rachel was watching him closely. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, and winced. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just my neck."

"I'm sorry," she said. She looked down, starting to gather the papers strewn across the bed. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Don't worry about it. It was a good move." He sat on the bed, handing her a stray paper. "At least, it would have been a good move if you'd pulled it off. Have you ever done it before?"

"A couple times, in class. Of course, it's a lot easier then."

Dean nodded. "It's a safe environment, for one. Plus, even if you're sparring, your instructor was probably working with you. We can practice it sometime." He hesitated, then added, "When my neck isn't killing me."

"I'd like that, thanks." She set her papers on her nightstand.

"Of course, the problem is, that's not really the best move to get someone off you. A cool move, yes, but not the most effective."

In the dim light of the room, he could see her cheeks color. "I just wanted to impress you with my mad fighting skills," she said wryly. "After my shameful display with that ghost, I've been redoubling my efforts in training."

"That's good. Training is important, even if you're mainly going to do the research part. You know what's out there, and you need to be prepared." He shrugged. "We could spar sometimes. Or you and Sam should, whatever. Get some practice in. We could teach you some of the moves we've found that work well."

"I'd like that." She combed her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. "Do you want to sleep in here? My bed would probably be easier on your neck than the futon."

"I wouldn't," Dean started, but he realized he was still rubbing his neck and that she was right. The futon was turning an uncomfortable annoyance into a major problem. "You don't mind?"

Rachel shook her head. "Not at all. You're my guest, right?"

Dean slid his legs on the bed. He picked up one of the pillows and punched it a few times. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She took another pillow and climbed off the bed. "Night, Dean."

"What's this Sam tells me that you're not going to grad school?" he asked suddenly, looking at the pillow in his hands.

Rachel turned, her had on the door knob. "What?"

He glanced at her, then back down. "Sam said that you decided not to apply for graduate school. I was wondering why. I mean, you always seem all gung-ho school and stuff. What changed?"

"I'm still planning on going," she said as she walked back to the bed. "And don't think that you and Sam had anything to do with me postponing it, because you didn't. I love research, I love learning about new things. I'm just not in love with school right now. Four years of college is a long time, especially after thirteen years of school."

"Yeah, that's why I skipped the whole higher education deal," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I needed a break from that whole book thing."

She grinned and sat down across from him. "So you understand. It's just a break, that's all."

He cleared his throat. "Well, good. I wouldn't want you to think that, you know. That I... that we..." Dean cleared his throat again, wondering why his brain felt like it'd been turned into a marshmallow; it must be the pain pills. "Research is important. And that computer program you're writing, that search engine? It's cool. I want to put it to use as soon as you've got it running. And it's, you know, just as important as the fighting part."

"I know, thanks," she said, a soft, funny sort of smile on her face. She traced the pattern on the bedspread, her bangs falling over her eyes. "My parents aren't thrilled. They had it all planned, you know? I had the plan."

"Is everyone in your family is a historian?"

"No. But we all go into research related areas. My uncle's a librarian. I thought about doing that, but I love history. And then there's England."

Dean nodded. "Oh, right. England. What's your fascination with that place, anyway?"

"I don't know." Rachel twisted some hair around her finger. "It's just... England. Haunted and old and romantic. There's so much history and magic and legend wrapped up in that place. Have you ever been?"

"Uh, no."

She looked up at him, smile playing on her lips. "That's right. You're afraid of flying."

"Dude, don't even start with me," he said, pointing at her. "Planes are evil. Completely unnatural. Besides," Dean added as an afterthought, "there's enough evil around here to keep us Winchesters busy. We don't have a big organization like your family. We're a small family operation."

Rachel laughed "Didn't your dad ever think that maybe whatever it is you're looking for went overseas?"

Dean shook his head and ran his knuckles over her knee. "He probably got distracted by vampires and poltergeists and the gazillion other creepy crawlies out there."

"It must have been rough growing up like that."

"If you want to consol someone who's wallowing in self-pity over what he perceives as being a screwed-up childhood, go wake up Sam," he said, voice hard. "I'm tired." He lay back, stuffing the pillow under his head and closing his eyes. Screw her, anyway.

The bed shifted, and Dean felt Rachel lay next to him. "It was rough growing up knowing that there might be something in my closet that wanted to hurt me when everyone else got to have the security of believing it was their imagination. It was rough not being able to talk about what was going on in my life because people never believed me. I was the only one around besides a couple of cousins that I went to school with. And they didn't like me. It's not about not getting a normal life, Dean. It's not me trying to get you to say that you don't like what you do because, God knows, I know you love it. I'm just... You lost your mom and you lost your dad..."

"I'm going to find him." Dean rolled onto his side, facing her. "I know that he's all right, he's just working on his own thing. That's all. And when he's done, he'll come back."

"That's not what I meant. I meant when you were a kid."

"I didn't lose my father."

"You sort of did. I mean, don't you ever wonder…"

He pressed his hand against her mouth, not letting her finish that thought. "No, I don't." Then, feeling the words press up through his throat, clawing to get out of his mouth, Dean heard himself say, "I can't."

Looking into his eyes, Rachel pulled his hand away and held it. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry." She swallowed.

He was being an ass, and he knew it. It was a habit. All his life, Dean had reacted strongly--maybe too strongly--any time he thought that someone was knocking his dad and the way he raised his sons. That included kids teasing him or Sammy on the playground for dressing in thrift shop clothes, or missing school so much, or not knowing about Smurfs or Transformers or GI Joe or whatever because they were too busy learning how to be warriors to watch cartoons.

They didn't know. None of them did. They didn't know what was out there, and they didn't know that his father was the only one strong enough and brave enough to face it. So no one had the right to put him down.

Which was why it drove Dean insane when Sam disparaged the way they were raised. Dean was so used to people putting his father down, that he had a hair-trigger. He knew he'd reacted too strongly to Rachel's statement. It was just…. habit. "So," he said after a moment of awkward silence. "What are you going to do? You know. Instead of grad school?"

Rachel shrugged and let go of his hand. "I haven't really thought that far. I've got a job at a bookstore that I'll probably keep. Or maybe I'll travel for a bit. I didn't get to do that whole backpacking through Europe thing after high school. Or, maybe I'll travel through the US. See the sights. See the spooks."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to hitch a ride?"

"Not necessarily," she said, laughing. "For one, I don't think I can afford your rates."

Dean could actually feel himself blushing at that. Luckily, the room was too dark for her to see, at least that's what he told himself. But, Christ, he'd manage to forget what an ass he'd acted like the first time they'd met. "Well," he said, "maybe this time, you wouldn't have to pay for everything."

"Gee, thanks." She grinned.

"You could pay for yourself. Your own food, own room, that sort of stuff."

"Are you inviting me along?" Rachel sounded incredulous.

Yeah, now he really was blushing. Dammit. "No. Well. If you want. I mean, I do think research is good and everything, but there's a lot to be said for practical experience, too. You are going to be doing more than just researching ghosts and stuff over there, right?"

"That's the plan."

He hitched a shoulder. "Better you practice with the experts than alone."

Rachel smiled. "My family isn't exactly made up of amateurs."

"Yeah, but you're the youngest, right? You know they're just going to keep treating you like a kid."

"And you won't?"

Dean shook his head and said, "I don't treat you like a kid. A moron, maybe, but not a kid."

She punched him in the shoulder.

"Hey now," he said, catching her hand. "I'm injured enough."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Rachel was laughing, her eyes sort of twinkling in the moonlight.

And they were in bed together. And there was a box of condoms in the bathroom.

Dean cleared his throat and lightly shoved Rachel away from him. "Can't an injured guy get any sleep around here?" he asked, voice rough. "I'm exhausted."

The light faded from Rachel's eyes, and she nodded. "Sleep, right. Sorry."

"Rachel…"

Rachel leaned over him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Night, Dean," she said, voice easy. She smiled as she climbed over him and off the bed. "Sleep well."