"You mean I'm all better," Dean said. "Even my heart?"

Dr. Isaacosn nodded. "I really explain it," he said, shaking his head. "It completely defies all logic and medicine. Everything I've been taught. But you are one hundred percent better. Heart is beating normally and back in the correct place, the edema is gone, the internal contusions have healed, and your vitals are excellent. You must have an angel watching over you, Dean." He put his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed.

"Thanks, Doc," Dean said, not really feeling all that thankful. No, that wasn't right. He was glad he was better, he just couldn't shake the creepy feeling that something was horribly wrong.

He waited until the doctor had left before saying to Sam, "You said a reaper was after me?"

"Yeah."

"How'd I ditch it?"

"You got me." Sam hand opened and closed over Dean's leg, like he wanted to touch Dean, but didn't. "Dean, you really don't remember anything?"

"No. Except this pit in my stomach. Sam, something's wrong." He shifted on the bed, uncomfortable. Again, not physically; he felt better than he had in weeks. But everything else.

He felt dirty.

"Where's Rachel?"

"Right here."

He turned. Rachel was standing in the doorway, face tear streaked, eyes red. There was snot crusted on her nose and her skin was pink and blotchy.

God, she was beautiful.

He held out his arms.

Rachel let out a breath. Her hand fisted at her mouth as her face crumpled. Stumbling, she ran across the room. Tripped into his arms, her own coming around him. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and held him. "You're really awake," she whispered.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right." He stroked her back. Kissed the top of her head. "Doctor says I'm all better. That I can go home real soon." He wrapped his hand around her braids and tugged her face off his neck.

She tilted her face to his, eyes closed. Mouth slightly parted, ready for him.

Something in him melted when their lips touched. Some of the sickness, the dirtiness clinging to him was washed away, and the tense knot in his stomach loosened just a bit.

A knock at the door drew them apart.

Dad was standing in the door, looking at him. "How you feeling?"

"Fine I guess," Dean replied, still tired. Rachel was on the bed now, curled away from his father, face back in Dean's neck. He put a protective arm around her. Threaded their fingers together. "I'm alive."

"That's good," Dad said, almost beaming at him.

"Where were you last night? This morning?" asked Sam.

In his arms, Rachel stiffened. He rubbed her back.

"I had some things to do," answered Dad.

"Well, that's specific," Sam said, and Dean's stomach knotted up again.

"Come on, Sam." He really didn't want them to fight. Why couldn't they all just be happy he was alive and leave it at that? What did it matter where Dad was? He was here now.

"Did you go after the demon?" Sam pushed.

John shook his head. "No."

"You know, why don't I believe you right now?"

John sighed and moved further into the room. "Can we not fight?" he asked to Dean's amazement. "You know, half the time I don't even know what we're fighting about. Just butting heads."

Dean frowned. This was not his father. Or, it was, because it wasn't like the last time, where it'd all been so wrong and he'd just known Dad was possessed. But this... it was Dad, only... only everything he was saying, everything that Dean had always wanted to hear him say to Sam, to make peace with him, it was wrong. Too much. And at the wrong time.

And Dad kept talking, making it all worse. "Sammy, I've made some mistakes, but I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?"

Sam was looking at Dad with an expression that perfectly mirrored Dean's own feelings. "Dad, you all right?

"Yeah." Dad smiled wearily. "Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, Sam, would you mind... would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?"

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, and Sam said, "Yeah. Yeah, sure, no problem." He glanced at Dean once more before he left.

Dad moved closer to Dean's bed. He took one of Rachel's braids and tugged. "Rachel?"

She pulled her face away from Dean. Kissed Dean quickly, without looking at him. Slid off the bed.

Dean watched her as she left. Her hand grazed Dad's as she passed him. Dad's hand turned over, squeezed her fingers briefly, let her go. And then she left the room.

"What is it?"

"When you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen I'd be wrecked...and you? You'd come up to me and put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd say, 'It's okay, Dad.'" Dad sighed, heavy. Deep. Put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to say that to me. I should've been saying that to you. You know, I put too much on your shoulders -- I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that. And you didn't complain. Not once. I just want you to know... that I am so proud of you."

This was really not what Dean wanted to hear, because it was everything that Dean wanted to hear. That all this... hurt was worth it. That Dad really did love him and was proud of everything he'd done. That Dad knew how Goddamn important him and Sammy were, because without them, Dean was nothing. They were family, and Dean had spent his life trying to hold them all together, even when everything seemed to be threatening to pull it apart.

But he couldn't say that. Couldn't even say thank you.

"Is this really you talking?" Dean asked, because he had to.

His dad smiled, sniffed. God, he was crying. Well, not crying, but really close to. "Yeah. Yeah, Dean, it's really me." He sniffed again.

"Why are you saying this stuff?"

"I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, you know I will. You're scaring me."

"Don't be scared Dean." Dad squeezed his shoulder, and then leaned over and started to whisper.

And as Dad spoke, revealing things he had never wanted to know, Dean knew nothing was ever going to be the same.


Rachel sat in the empty room next to Dean's. She could feel the presence of the demon in there, and wondered at it. Maybe it was letting her feel it. Maybe it wanted to make her uneasy.

Not that it needed to. She was still feeling sick from earlier. Violated, even though it hadn't really done anything to her. Nothing except threaten her. And take away the possibility of her future happiness. Oh, no. It'd done nothing at all.

She didn't know how long she was there before John walked into the room. His eyes were wet.

"Rachel..."

She pushed herself off the bed. "Maybe it's not too late," she said. She crossed to him. Clenched her hands in his shirt. "Maybe we can still... I shouldn't have let you say no. I shouldn't have let you do this."

His hands were on her shoulders, squeezing. "You don't tell me what to do, little girl. This is my choice."

"But if we tell it..."

"No." He sighed and bent down until their foreheads were pressed together. "No. Rachel. Dean loves you. What kind of father would I be if I took the thing he loves only to release a demon on the world? In the end, it'd break all us. This is better."

"But..."

He brushed an awkward kiss on her mouth and then pushed her away. "Go. Your husband needs you."

She backed away from him. Her body buzzed. Head swam.

John gave her a half smile, then turned away. Rachel watched as he pulled the Colt from his pocket and placed it on the tray over the bed.

She couldn't watch. Her stomach lurched painfully. Rachel turned and fled. Ran down the hall, feet pounding on the tile. She didn't want to see this. Didn't want to see the demon again, didn't want to see it settle its business with John. Didn't want to hear what it would say about her sudden change of heart. Her willingness to be the mother of a demon to save the life of Dean's father. Didn't want to hear it gloat or brag or promise that she would mother its offspring, only not with John.

Couldn't deal. Didn't want to. She wasn't strong enough.

She almost--not all the way, but almost--wished John had never woken up.

Rachel barely made it to the bathroom before she threw up. Sweat coated her skin, her face, her arms, her back. Her shirt was soaked through, so much so that she pulled it off, too hot, too much. Another bout of nausea hit just as she tossed it on the floor. The sound of vomit hitting the water below made her feel even sicker. She was on fire, over sensitive. The lights were too much, the sound of the toilet next to her flushing too much. She wanted to die and wished she'd offered her own life up in place of John's.

"You okay?" someone called.

Instead of answering, Rachel heaved again, coughing and gagging over the smelly bowl.

"I'm getting help!" Footsteps. A door opening. "Help! Someone..." The door closed again.

Rachel spit into the toilet. Flushed. Her stomach felt somewhat settled. Carefully, she pulled her sopping shirt back on and left the stall.

The taste felt as if it'd never wash out.

Rose rushed in with someone else. "Rachel?" she said. Crossed the room and took Rachel's wrist.

"I'm okay," she croaked, feeling anything but.

"No, you're not. You're sick. Let's get you a wheelchair and down to emergency." Rose pulled Rachel out of the bathroom. "I'll be with you the whole time, don't worry. And Dean will be able to come, too. You know he's..." Rose trailed off, looking down the hall.

Rachel followed her gaze.

Sam and Dean were standing outside the room John had gone into. Even from here, Rachel could hear the urgent talk of doctors and nurses working together, hear the wild beeping of machines as they fought the fruitless battle to save John Winchester's life.

She pulled away from Rose. Ran down the hall. "Dean."

Dean glanced at her like it hurt to pull his eyes away from the room. His arms went around her body. He turned back, face a mask of despair as Dr. Isaacosn said, "I'll call it. Time of death, 10:41 AM."

And just like that, John and the demon's deal had been completed. And Rachel was left with the knowledge of what had happened, and the knowledge that she could never, ever share it with anyone.