Wow, thank you for all the lovely reviews! I know it was a bit of a longer wait, but I will update at least once every two weeks. Enjoy! This came out a little more emotional than I meant it to be, but after several rewrites, I just kept coming back to this.

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"Well, I have to be off. I don't want to be here in moment. Your brother's coming up the hall, and he's a good shot." The Demon rose to his feet, dusting his long, black overcoat with one hand. His eyes danced with anticipation. "So, I expect you'll be going after Eloise soon."

"As long as it gets rid of you, I'll start hunting for her as soon as I'm awake."

"Hunting her?" A caustic laugh, burning acidic in the air. "There's hope for you yet, Samuel." The Demon's solid, lithe form began to dissapate into a cloud of black, swirling smoke, hot and dizzyingly sulphuric. A tendril that had once been a powerful hand swept Sam's jawbone in a perfect mockery of affection. "I do wish you luck though."

"What is she to you?" The abrupt inquiry came out of Sam's mouth, dropping from his lips by chance , not design.

The smoke paused, forming a vaguely humanoid shape. "Who?"

"Eloise Mitchell. Why her?"

"Let us just say… her death does something for both of us."

And he was gone.

Oooooooooooooooooooo

"Which room?" Involutarily, John shuddered. Dean's voice, with that odd quality of being able to speak without the use of actual air, sounded almost like a whisper, with smooth, low tones of difficulty gliding softly beneath the words. Dean shouldn't sound like that. Dean was loud and sarcastic, stubborn and occasionally socially inept. He was not quiet and compliant, accepting and occasionally vunerable, which was exactly what the quiet whisper-voice made him sound like.

"The one at the end of the hall. Tan door." John quickened his pace to keep up with his son. The fact that Dean wasn't deterred by his own death, no, even that Dean was possibly even more hardy than before, made him feel even more at a loss as the paternal figure. If Dean had been weak, sick, wounded, incapable of holding his own, John would know what to do. Hold him tight until he's better, search books and the web while he's sleeping, find a solution, get the solution, give Dean the solution, and watch his oldest get up and walk of his own power, healed.

John didn't think that applied here.

He stepped easily into pace with Dean, put a hand on his shoulder. "This is the one." Dean made a move for the door, a spark of life almost returning to his eyes. Almost. "Hang on." Dean's eyes, previously empty, nearly showed emotion.

"What?" He made another move for the door, reaching out one pale hand to grasp the doorknob. John put a warning hand on his wrist.

"Dean. Something happened to your brother back there." A pause. "I don't know what he's going to be like when he wakes up." He paused again, the words he meant to say plastering themselves to the roof of his mouth. "You watch him."

"I always do."

"And Dean?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Your scarf's slipping. I can see it." 'It' had become the term to refer to Dean's life-ending injury. John couldn't bring himself to say what it really was. The scarf, purchased at the local gas station, was thick and black, and fairly well suited for its macabre purpose. Dean hurriedly pulled it up, wrapping the long tail around once more. John nodded his approval and reached for the door. A gentle tug all that was required to open it. The older Winchesters stepped in quietly, and John turned, lightly tapping the door shut. From behind his turned shoulders, he could hear Dean's footfalls quick and powerful rush across the room, and his youngest son's voice murmur his older brother's name. John joined Dean at the end of the bed, and somehow, the three of them, their little triad of strength, defined safety, defined home. Odd, John reflected in the back of his mind, because they'd never been less secure, and they'd never had a home.

"Sammy." Dean planted both hands of the bedrails, leaning in over his sibling like the roof that shelters the innocents from the storm.

Sam didn't say anything, lying still beneath white sheets. His eyes, still fluttering slightly, flickered back and forth on his brother's face, searching for traces of something, eager and appealing, unsettled as lamplight in the rain. Dean repeated himself, rocking forward then back slightly, tapping one finger against the cold metal he held to anxiously. Sam opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, "Dean? Are you…?"

"Yeah, Sammy. You…?"

"Yes."

Dean stepped back, and John was sure that if his son could have sighed, he would have out of sheer relief. "Okay."

"What happened up there, Sam?" John chose his authoritative voice. His boys were going on emotion alone, and emotions weren't tied in with reality by any kind of thread. Right now, the last thing the Winchesters needed was to lose touch with reality.

"The Demon came at me. He…provoked me, made me fight. With…you know…" He broke off, and tapped his temple lightly with one finger. His father nodded. "He beat me." Sam shook his head, swearing softly. "It hurt, too."

"We're lucky it didn't kill you, Sam." John remarked, reaching to lightly brush unruly bangs from his son's face.

"Yeah. He got Dean instead." Sam's voice broke. "Dean? How…"

"It's a long story."

"I have nowhere to be."

Dean smiled, exhaustion streaking the crinkles in the corner of his eyes with dark. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Dad, will you stand guard?"

John just smiled back, knowing full well that that was just a polite way of saying, I have to talk to Sam, please leave. He stepped out quickly, and when the door closed behind him, felt out the gun in his pocket, solid and weighty.

Just in case.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Did it hurt?"

"Not much. Actually, it hurt a lot. But only for a second."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Dad and I…we were right there. I was ten feet away, and I couldn't stop it." A bitter laugh, rising from bitter depths. "Dad was even closer. And we didn't even know he was there, didn't even…couldn't even help you."

"Oh, come on, Sam. We're not starting the guilt thing again. You sound like such a girl."

"Yeah, Dean, well I think it's justified this time around."

"What, sounding like a girl?"

Sam glared at him, without any real anger.

Dean scoffed, dropping into the chair, slinging one arm nonchalantly over the side, resting his head against his seat's sagging back. "Sam, what do you want me to say? 'You're right, it's all your fault?' I hate to burst your bubble, but every event in the universe doesn't happen because of you."

"This one did." Dean opened his mouth to argue, bus Sam cut him off, abrupt. "Can I see it?"

"Trust me, you don't want to see it."

"Yeah, I do." It was Dean's duty as older brother to say no. The Columbian necktie that blossomed across his throat wasn't exactly something you exposed your little brother to. But something in Sam's eyes whispered competence, a silent assurance that Sam had already prepared himself for the blow.

Dean shook his head, but unwound the black material from around his neck, let the scarf slither across his knees to the floor. Sam closed his eyes tightly, his lips pursing, and a single tear danced from his eyes to his cheekbone, until he raised a hand to wipe it away. But one crack in a dam can release the flood, and it wasn't long before the lone tear found itself in abundant company. The youngest Winchester, at age twenty-three, suddenly found a million pent up tears coursing their way across his face. But there was no shame in it, not this time, because when Sam looked up, Dean was already settling onto the bed next to him one arm raising to pull his brother into a tight embrace.

"What are we going to do, Dean? I don't know what to do." Sam was sobbing now, his voice wavering, his hand clenched firmly in his older brother's shirt. How did he explain to Dean the choice he now had to make? If it'd just been Dean, he could have handled it. It would have been hard, but he could have handled it. But it was Dean, and the Demon, and a stranger he'd have to murder, not just kill, but murder, and now there was no doubt that he'd have to do it, because only Dean really mattered, and that was how Sam could save him.

"I don't know, either, Sammy."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Were you scared to die?"

Dean closed his eyes, and he felt phantom, imaginary tears build in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I was. I only had a second, you know? Just a few seconds after it got me, where I couldn't move and everything hurt so much, and then I saw Dad." His voice dropped until it was nearly inaudible. Sam quieted and listened. "And then nothing hurt. But I could still see. It wasn't bad, wherever it is we go after. Kind of peaceful, actually." Dean rested his chin against the top of Sam's head, emotion almost choking in its intensity. "I think…I think I saw Mom."

And both the sons of Mary, the sacrifice, and John, the crusader, cried.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Alright, there you have it! Next chapter, Sam begins the Hunt, Dean is unpredictable, and John deals with the aftermath. See you soon!

--Kim Who Knows