AN: The birthday thing is completely gratuitous since I discovered that James Francis Edward Stuart (the prince, not the bear) actually did share my birthday.

This is kind of a quiet chapter, but I tried to mix a little humor with the feels. Only an epilogue after this one, and guess what? More schmoop. You're shocked, aren't you?

And if I haven't said it before, I love you guys. Seriously, your comments buoy me and teach me and give me ideas and most of all make me smile. Y'all rule.

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It was another two days until everyone was rested and healthy enough to head out to the Walsh house to see if they could set Philomena free – for everyone's sakes. Sam had seemed to spend most of the time sleeping, dozing off while talking, researching, and one memorable time, while cleaning his gun. Dean spent most of the time finding reasonably comfortable positions and remembering just how much abdominal wounds sucked. Bobby spent most of the time being a tyrant about eating and sleeping and pretty much everything else, but he also refused to leave until the hunt was finished.

When they arrived at the house, Philomena met them readily enough, her bear at her side. She was merely a pale outline, but they had no trouble hearing her. "Thank you for returning, Bobby Singer," she said. "I would like to go be with my mother now."

Dean found himself sort of hoping that she did end up with her mother, and was immediately glad the others couldn't tell what he was thinking. Since when did he feel sorry for a ghost? And more, a ghost witch that had (inadvertently or not) killed people with her final spell. She'd tried to fix it, but still…Dean cast a surreptitious look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Philomena had nearly killed Sammy, who still stood with noticeable fatigue. But then she'd saved him too. And Sarah. Dean scowled. Gray areas sucked.

"Still here, Dean," murmured Sam under his breath, amusement and understanding in his voice. Apparently, Dean's glance hadn't been as sneaky as he'd thought.

Standing just in front of them, physically taking point as the only unwounded hunter, Bobby asked Philomena, "Do you have any idea what's anchorin' you here? And for that matter, your bear?"

"James Francis Edward Stuart will follow wherever I go," responded Philomena demurely folding her hands in front of her, and Dean believed her. "He and I share a birthday, after all. Well, the prince James Francis Edward Stuart and I do. I am not sure about this James Francis Edward Stuart, since he is a bear and cannot tell me the day of his birth."

Dean saw Sam biting his lip to keep his amusement from showing, and Dean cleared his throat so he didn't laugh. As far as he could see, Bobby didn't bat an eyelash. "And what do you think might be anchoring you?" he asked with perfect equanimity. "Do you know where your bones are?

"Gone," replied Philomena absently. "All used up in the first spell."

"How about the house?" Bobby wanted to know. Dean perked up. He would really, really enjoy torching the stupid house that played host to his nightmares lately. Even more than he normally enjoyed torching things.

"There is no residual magic in the house," Philomena responded, dashing Dean's hopes.

Sam had his thinking face on. Or he was constipated. "No, I don't think we need to burn the whole house," he said thoughtfully, cementing his place as Dean's least favorite brother. "Philomena, it's probably something in your favorite room. Could it be your dolls?"

Philomena seemed to stare right through them. "When the world was too loud, mother would make them dance and sing to me."

Dammit. It was really hard to hate Philomena when she said stuff like that.

Bobby chimed in. "And where are they?"

"Third floor," explained Sam when Philomena only waved toward the house. He made to move, but Bobby pointed a stern finger at him, then at Dean, too, which he thought was unfair.

"I'll get 'em. You two walking wounded stay here and wait for me. And sit down, will ya?"

They didn't sit, but they did lean against the Impala, which Dean and Bobby had retrieved the day before, and which Dean had insisted on bringing tonight. Philomena and her pet blinked out and reappeared at Baby's side. Dean stiffened as she ran phantom fingers along the car's roof, leaving behind sparkles that quickly winked out. "I like this creature," she said, sounding almost wistful. "It growls louder than James Francis Edward Stuart."

Before Dean could think of a thing to say, she disappeared again. Next to him, Sam laughed, and Dean just took a second to drink in the sound. But the two of them were alone, and Dean wasn't about to waste that opportunity. "Hey, Sam, what play were you talking about earlier? You never did tell me who Charlie is."

Sam stiffened, rolled his shoulders, tapped the fingers of both hands softly against the car behind him, and tipped his head back to look up at the sky, basically going through every one of his tells. "The play is called Flowers for Algernon," he said finally. "Jess and I went Stanford's production of it on our first date that was more than just grabbing coffee."

Now it was Dean's turn to stiffen. Other than to call it out from the throes of a nightmare, Sam didn't so much as speak his late girlfriend's name. Dean tried to decide if he'd done the right thing to ask.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam even smiled a little, not looking over. "You want to know why I was thinking about it in there, right?" He tipped his head toward the house.

Dean nodded, barely breathing. Sometimes it felt like Sam was the most resilient person on the planet, and other times, it felt like he was spread so brittle and thin that the wrong kind of hit could shatter him into a million pieces.

"The play is about a man named Charlie who has a really low IQ." Sam's voice was soft, but it sounded reminiscent rather than pained. "He gets a procedure that makes him really smart. He…learns a bunch of things he never realized, falls in love. Well, anyway, he studies the procedure and figures out that it won't last and he's going to go back to his old self, which seems like a completely separate person." Sam swallowed twice. "And he says, 'The only question now is: How much can I hang onto?'"

Dean had the sinking sensation that his brother had left him behind in ways that he'd never comprehend. "Holy shit," he responded like the troglodyte he was. But when he looked over, Sam was smiling at him.

"That was the wrong question for me, though." Sam shrugged as if it didn't matter. "I should have known that when I couldn't hold on any more, you could."

Dean cleared his throat and thought that he hadn't been left behind after all. Then, since Sam looked like he was in desperate need of a way to climb out of the emotional pit they'd jumped right into, Dean asked, "Know what I was worried about?" Sam was smiling again and trying to hide it, anticipating a funny answer. "I was just worried that not everything would grow at the same rate." Dean made a crude gesture toward his own crotch.

So they were both laughing when Bobby came back out.

It actually took Bobby a few trips, since there were eight of the large dolls and he also retrieved all of the clothes piled in the garret, as well as Sam's shoes from up there and Dean's boots from the foyer. Fortunately, with Sarah Dwyer suffering from nothing the doctors could find except exhaustion, the place wasn't considered a crime scene, so everything was pretty much still in place.

By the time Bobby was finished, Sam and Dean had made their slow way to the back of the house, where the fire would take place. Dean didn't even growl too much when Sam grabbed his elbow to help him stand back up. "Creaky old men at 22 and 26," he grumbled.

"You've aged a lot lately," replied Sam straightfaced, and took his swat with good humor.

Bobby had laid the dolls out all side by side, with the pile of clothes at their feet. He covered everything liberally with lighter fluid and salt, all under the watchful eye of the bear with a long-ass name and his ethereal mistress. The girl looked more like she was attending a quilting bee than her own burning party, about to head to an unknown afterlife.

"I am prepared," she said simply when Bobby stood.

Bobby offered his lighter to the Winchesters, who stood with hands in their pockets against both the chill in the air and the memories of their time in the house at their backs. They both shook their heads. But before he lit the fire, Bobby did something that surprised Dean. He looked to Philomena and doffed his cap. "Good-bye, Philomena, and thank you. I hope you find your mother."

Next to Dean, Sam gave a little wave and a shadow of a smile. Almost against his will, Dean sent the ghost a jaunty salute. She didn't respond, other than to grin at them, an expression that made her look like an impish 12-year-old.

Bobby bent and touched the flame of the lighter to the corner of an ugly yellow shirt on the pile he'd made. It caught quickly. Philomena and James didn't go up in flames the way Dean was used to. Instead, they seemed to flow into the pyre, then bleed into the smoke and ride it in a sparkling spiral up and out of sight. As they did, a song drifted down to the three hunters' ears, magically translated in their minds as they listened.

Huna'n dawel, heno, huna / Huna'n fwyn, y tlws ei lun / Pam yr wyt yn awr yn gwenu / Gwenu'n dirion yn dy hun? / Ai angylion fry sy'n gwenu / Arnat ti yn gwenu'n llon / Tithau'n gwenu'n ôl dan huno / Huno'n dawel ar fy mron?

Sleep, my darling, night is falling / Rest in slumber sound and deep / I would know why you are smiling / Smiling sweetly as you sleep / Do you see the angels smiling / As they see your rosy rest / So that you must smile in answer / As you slumber on my breast?

Sam, Dean, and Bobby all watched the fire burn down in silence and acted like they hadn't heard the song or been moved by it, even Sam, the big girl. They also pretended that the Winchesters weren't already wilting from their little outing, even without doing much. They were hunters, after all. Nobody was ever completely healthy, but you powered through it and didn't whine about it.

Deciding they'd had quite enough seriousness for the night, Dean started an argument about what the ultimate breakfast would be. Sam joined in readily and creatively insulted Dean and his choices. That, naturally, earned him creative insults in return, until Bobby told them they were a pair of "idjits" and whacked them both with his hat (though more gently than normal). They all knew they'd blow town and head in different directions in the morning.

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AN: The song is again Suo Gân, both versions taken from Wikipedia.

Scealai: *gulp* My sincerest apology. Laundry is one of the Great Evils, along with undercooked eggs, people who chew with their mouths open, and running out of coffee. I feel simply terrible for causing you to have to do more laundry. As for Sam-in-a-towel, I think I missed my chance in this story, which is extremely sad. And now that I'm thinking about it, I have to wipe drool off of my keyboard.

Jenjoremy: Sorry for the ice storm…scary stuff. But glad you get to stay home, and utterly thrilled to have you call finding a new chapter "a delightful surprise." Bobby definitely was wearing his superhero cape in this story.

Timelady66: Sorry about the make up! I love what you said about John. Stormysea-breaks and others helped me understand him better, as did that 300th episode. I'll write you a Weechesters one shot soon, promise. I have written them before, but as part of a larger story.

sfaulkenberry: Yes, we certainly prefer them with fewer clothes! (Or I do, anyway.) Nice call with predicting John's involvement...I remember that you're one of those smart readers! And I'm so grateful that you take the time to leave such lovely and specific reviews.