Chapter Six

Dean had never been so troubled by a desk drawer before. There was that one drawer on a Sheriff's desk in Baton Rouge when he'd broken the paperclip he'd been using to pick the lock. Or there was the time when he was six and a two year old Sammy had accidentally slammed a drawer closed on Dean's fingers. He'd screamed bloody murder then, and because Sam didn't know what happened, he'd joined him. But even that drawer hadn't troubled Dean as much as this one. This stupid desk drawer, next to the bed, on a mahogany side table, with fancy brass handles and shiny, polished surfaces. Dean would have no trouble opening it.

And that's what was troubling him.

Because inside that fancy looking desk drawer, inside something that looked so innocent, sat his .45, model 945, kicked like a mule, jammed more than a Blues group, and right now looked like the best option this world had offered him in a while. He'd snuck it in when Sam had brought him here. It was fully loaded, it was ready for action, and all Dean had to do was wheel his gimp ass over there, put it to his head, and pull the trigger and this nightmare would be over.

Dean had read once in a book (why are you reading about the philosophy of death, Dean-o? Just cause, thought it seemed relevant, Dad.) about Plato's two visions of death. The first, and what Dean hoped for, would be like an eternal dreamless sleep. The kind of sleep where you go to sleep and wake up nine hours later though it doesn't seem like anything more than five minutes. Only in death, you don't wake up. You don't gauge how long you've been asleep. You don't do anything but just stop. And the idea of just stopping, just ceasing everything, seemed like such a relief. This life where he was constantly moving, constantly feeling, constantly screaming; to just stop, that would be the greatest gift he'd ever been given.

But the second vision of death, the one Dean thought had to be true, Plato classified as, "the movement of the soul from one plane to another." Basically a big fuck you, you don't get to sleep, you're going to hell, have a nice day. With everything Dean came across on a daily basis, with ghosts, demons, lost souls, he knew this one was true. He knew that not even death would give him rest. He'd probably be sent straight to hell. Probably be given a nice suite between the revenant he'd killed last week and the devil himself. Hey maybe he could play cards with Beelzebub. Bastard probably cheated.

Either way, Dean knew whatever the afterlife held, it had to be better than this. If, by some grace of whatever god was out there, death meant going to sleep forever, then Dean was fucking tired. He was ready to close his eyes and just sleep. And if death meant going to hell, burning in firey lakes of sulfur and all that jazz, then Dean was ready. In Dean's mind, it was better to suffer and be surrounded by others who were suffering than to suffer and be surrounded by happiness and knowing you can never have that. You can never wake up and look forward to the day. You can never just get lost in a movie and forget about the stresses of the day. You can never kiss a girl. You can never smile the way Sammy smiles.

Fuck, where was that gun?

The door to the bedroom opened and Dean tensed, but immediately regretted it as pain lanced through nearly every bone in his body, well, at least the ones he could feel. Dean drew his gaze away from the desk drawer. He hadn't really expected Sam to come back so soon. It had only been a few hours. Damn, his brother sure had grown up in the last twelve or so years. When they were younger and Sam got mad, he'd stay gone for hours upon hours. He'd either go shove his nose into some book at a library or sulk so pitifully in their room that Dean couldn't stand to even be near him. It usually didn't end this quickly. My little Sammy, all grown up.

"Um…are you awake?"

Or not.

The voice definitely wasn't Sam's. It surprised him so much that the person coming in the room wasn't Sam that he actually turned his head to make sure his brother hadn't suddenly reverted back into an eleven year old. Because wouldn't that just top off the day nicely. He frowned slightly as he watched Hannah peek her head around the door. When they made eye contact, she smiled widely.

"Oh good, you are," she said and then pushed the door the rest of the way open. Dean let out a quiet sigh, part of him wanting to tell her that now wasn't a good time, never would be a good time, but another part of him was just too tired to argue, too tired to disappoint little girls. So he just sat there and watched her as she came into the room toting a small wagon behind her filled with toys and books and all assortments of little kid's playthings. And though Dean wasn't in the mood, he was slightly curious as to what she was up to. It looked like she had enough stuff to camp out for a while. God he hoped not. Kids got bored easily, right?

"I brought you some toys," she announced, pulling the wagon over to the bed Dean sat beside before she hopped up and crawled to sit next to him. He just sat there, watching her. Who did this kid think she was? Barging in here without asking, being so close to him like she wasn't afraid to touch him, smiling at him like there was something to actually smile about. What? Was she blind? Could she not see the big ass fucking wheelchair he was sitting on? Didn't Sam teach his kids anything?

Hannah didn't seem to notice Dean's scrutiny as she reached into the wagon and began to pull out her toys. She started to scatter them on the bed. She was very particular to her organization and categorization of toys, Dean noticed. The same way he would splay gun parts to clean them, she was now splaying toys to play with them. Must be genetic.

"Here," Hannah said abruptly, holding one of the toys out for him. When he didn't take it, she waggled it in front of him and explained, "This is a Space Cadet Zoomerang Action Figure," she said in a matter-of-factly voice. When Dean didn't say anything, she sighed and tilted her head to the side. "From the show, Ace Cadet 3000?" Dean frowned and opened his mouth to ask if maybe she could play someplace else, but Hannah kept going. "You press this button, and listen to what he says." She pressed a button on the figure's back.

"I vanquish you to the depths of Zorgon Sector Nine!" it announced. What the fuck was that? Is this how low toymakers had sunk? What happened to Power Rangers or Ninja Turtles or Thundercats? He-Man for god sakes.

"You can have that," Hannah said and realizing Dean wasn't going to take the toy, she placed it in his lap. He stared down at it with a glare that clearly said, how dare you. But Hannah didn't seem to notice. She went back to sorting through her toys, finding ones that Dean could have. He sighed heavily. Was it too much to ask to be left alone?

"Hannah…" he started, picking up the action figure in his lap, intent on giving it back to her, but she shoved another toy at him. He recognized it instantly and whatever angry words he'd been about to say melted in his mouth. He hadn't expected her to still have that.

"Magic squirt gun," she said happily, before noticing the action figure in Dean's hand. She took the action figure and replaced it with the squirt gun. "It still works," she said, discarding the action figure and smiling at Dean, but his eyes were on the squirt gun, remembering the night he'd stayed up with Hannah, eating candy, which was completely against Sam's rules, and destroying any evil monster that appeared in the closet, which happened to be two socks, a coat hanger, a dust bunny, and even a two headed acid spitting time warping flesh eating spider had shown up. Hannah had left the task of killing it to Dean, the fearless hunter, but both had screamed when it had jumped on his hand.

The memory twitched the corner of Dean's mouth, the closest he'd come to smiling in weeks. But no use getting hopes up, those days were over. He placed the gun back down on the bed and Hannah looked down at it before turning her solemn gaze up at him. One thing Sam had taught his daughter was how to pull off those damn puppy eyes.

"I don't have much use for them," he told her quietly.

Hannah regarded him for a moment before the smile reappeared on her face. "Okay," she said, shoving all of the toys off the bed and back into the wagon. Dean thought he'd won, but then Hannah pulled something else out. "We can do a puzzle," she told him, jumping off the bed and running to the closet to pull out the plywood that she'd obviously used before to put together a puzzle on. She pulled it towards the bed with some difficulty. When she jumped up on the bed and nearly fell off trying to get the wood up there, Dean found himself reaching out and helping her pull it onto the bed. Great, he couldn't tell her no now. "Me and Pat do puzzles all the time. I'm way better than him."

Dumping the puzzle pieces onto the wood, she began sorting them, explaining her actions to Dean. "We've got to get all the edge pieces out first. It's easier that way." Dean watched her as she sorted all the pieces. He was trying to think of a way to tell her that he really didn't want the company right now when he noticed the puzzle piece in her hand would probably fit to the one right by her knee. He frowned, why couldn't he just tell this kid to go away? Hell, he'd exploded at his own brother, practically blamed all the things that were wrong with the world on his kid brother. So why couldn't he just tell this little mini-succubus to get the hell out of his room? Why was she even here? Didn't she have brothers to be tormenting or neighbors to terrorize?

Hannah looked up at him after a moment. She reached over and patted his arm, surprising him with the gesture. "It's okay, Uncle Dean," and his throat constricted at the Uncle Dean part. It had been forever since he'd heard her say that. And here she was, saying it with such love and compassion.

"Puzzles are hard at first, but you'll get the hang of it."

Oh Universe, you are a cruel, cruel thing you sick bastard. You send a little girl to do a man's job, eh? You couldn't show up and say it yourself, you had to send a little fucking girl with a quiet voice and gentle eyes to say the loudest statement there could possibly be. Smart bastard, that universe. Knowing sometimes being quiet can be the loudest thing in the world.

"Hey, uh…" he had to clear his throat and Hannah just waited for him, the patience of a saint. What to say to this little kid? Thank you would be a start, but thanks for what? Thanks for not treating me like a broken toy? Thanks for looking at me and actually seeing me instead of my bruises? Thanks for smiling? Thanks for starting to put together my puzzle pieces? "That…that piece, right there, could fit with the one in your hand."

Hannah looked down and snapped the two puzzle pieces together. She squealed and looked up at him with glee. "You did it!" she triumphed and Dean nearly choked out a sob at the admiration in her eyes. The difference between Hannah and Sam was that Hannah had all the innocence of a child still left in tact. Sam was grown up, experienced, knew when things were gone to shit. There'd been question in Sam's eyes when Dean had seen him. Questions of, are you okay? Are you going to be alright? Do you hate me? Do you love me? Are you still Dean? But with Hannah, there were no questions. There were never questions in her eyes. The difference between Hannah and Sam was that Hannah still saw Dean as Dean. Uncle Dean who liked gummy bears as much as she did, Uncle Dean who snuck them cookies from the kitchen, Uncle Dean who could vanquish a two headed acid spitting time warping flesh eating spider with minimal screaming. There was never a question that he'd been lost or broken. To her, he was alright. And it made Dean think that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

"See?" Hannah smiled. "You're getting better already."

You've no idea, kiddo.