A/N: I really appreciate everyone that is reading this, thanks to you all.

Chapter 8

Lily slowly walked up behind Dean, resting a soft hand gently on his shoulder. He looked beat and broken, and not just physically. He was covered in dirt, and sweat, making him look like something he and Sam had just dug up to salt and burn. It was his eyes that told the true tale though. They looked lost and alone as Dean hung his head, trying to bury the emotions that had flooded uncontrollably into him as he read that one, stupid clue and immediately took in its meaning. The emotions had been bottled up inside him for so long, and buried so deep, he'd almost forgotten them until they came back and hit him like a stampede of wild horses. And the horses were trampling him emotionally with every step they took.

"Dean, are you alright? Can I help you? Please, talk to me."

Her touch breaking his thoughts, he slowly rose from his knees, finally able to fully suppress the intense onslaught that had assaulted him. He knew there was only one thing in any world that she could be teasing him with, and she really knew where to hit him where it hurt the most.

"I'm fine. I just need to finish this, and not just for Sam's sake."

"I understand. Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all, just name it."

"No, there's nothing you can do. I'm the only one that can make any of this right."

Forcing his brain to kick itself into gear again, he started up the first row of headstones, examining each one carefully. They had no names, only strange symbols. Dean could only assume it signified who the buried demon was. He had a strange thought come over him. Did demons have loved ones? Did they have families? Did their families come to visit their graves? And how many of them had his father put there? He remembered that night in the cabin, Yellow Eyes confessing to him that he'd killed his son. He wondered which one of these was him.

Row after row, stone after stone, he walked. He'd lost count of how many he'd passed, the insignias all starting to blend together. Occasionally, he'd see one he thought looked familiar, like he'd seen it in one of Bobby's books, but most often they were just a jumbled mess of circles, lines, and odd shapes.

One finally did catch his eye, standing out in the distance. It was simple, it stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of intricate designs, and it was exactly the clue he'd been looking for. He turned and headed towards it, quickening his pace with each step forward he took.

It was the symbol he saw on the stone, it's meaning being obvious in a maze of dead demons.

When he finally came to face the headstone he'd searched so eagerly for, he landed hard on the ground before it, knowing what he needed to do, but not sure exactly how to do it. It was going to be damn near impossible. Physically and emotionally wrecked, he tried to summon the strength to start digging. He didn't know how far down it would be, but he was betting 'six feet under' wasn't just some tired cliché here. Starting at the base of the headstone, one hand after bloody hand, he just dug.

Sam had never screamed more in his entire life then he had since this whole ordeal began, and he'd probably never cried as much either. First, the walk through the desert and Dean smashing head first into a cactus. Then, the pain of having an invisible metal spike driven through his hand, bleeding profusely from a hole that wasn't there. Constantly exhausted. And let's not forget when he'd kissed Lily. What he'd felt for just that brief moment, well, never mind that. He may need therapy for the rest of his life after that one. But the emotional pain he felt right now was worse then all of it combined. He couldn't even watch his brother anymore, it hurt him too much. He stood out like a cartoon character against an old Alfred Hitchcock movie. And he felt the pain he knew was buried deep inside Dean. The hurt he never lets out, never lets anyone see. Witnessing Dean emotionally wrecked and knowing he was feeling it along with him, only added to his own pain, and it was almost more then he could take. The feelings of guilt, grief, worthlessness, self-doubt, and loneliness were unbelievable. Dean put up an incredible front, but behind it was a small, confused child still looking for love and approval.

He was grateful when Dean finally mustered the strength to quickly rebuild the Winchester Wall he was so masterful at putting up in his mind, with the agony and raw emotion tucked safely behind it where it usually resided.

"My god Bobby, is that what he lives with inside him every day? I knew he was hurting, but I never new it was that bad."

"Yeah, well, you get it ten times worse, remember?"

"I remember. And if he lives with one tenth of what I just felt coming from him every day, he's in some serious pain. Why does he need to keep all that inside him? It's gonna kill him someday, I can feel it."

"He keeps it inside him so you don't have to feel it with him Sam. All he's ever wanted to do is protect you, and that means from everything. So he keeps all his hurt stuck up in his craw where even he can pretend it doesn't exist. He's just like your Daddy. John never said anything either, but you knew the hurt was there. You could always see it in his eyes. Just like you can see it in Dean's."

"Well, when he gets out of there, we're so gonna have a nice long talk. I just got bombarded with twenty-eight years of stored up anguish in five minutes, and he's gonna explain every last one of those feelings to me, whether he likes it or not."

"I'd be leaning towards the 'not'. You better make damn sure you hide the weapons first."

"From him, or me?"

"Both."

With some sense or normality finally returning to Sam, he watched his brother mindlessly walk up one row of graves after another, searching for only Dean knew what. He hadn't actually read his latest note out loud, but by the way it made Dean feel, Sam had a pretty good idea what it was. There was only one thing that stirred Dean up that much.

He watched as Dean's face was struck with a look of recognition, the hurried pace he suddenly had in his step, the symbol on the headstone, and the frantic attempt at digging by hand.

When the digging started, so did the bleeding. Bobby was running out of towels to wrap Sam's hand in, it was bleeding so much. And the more Dean dug, the more it bled. But he felt no pain. Dean was in such a frenzied state, he felt nothing. No hunger, no exhaustion, no pain. All he felt was compelling need to get to the bottom of that grave.

"Sam, he may be getting close. You may want to brace yourself for what's to come. If he found what I think he's found, I don't know how it's gonna make him or you feel."

Dean scooped up dirt and hurled it in all different directions. He'd never had to dig up a grave bare-handed before, and was pretty sure he'd never want to do it again. It was hard work with a shovel, but it was arduous without. He also knew he was just about out of time. He could feel it. He didn't care though, it only spurred him on to go faster. His arm was blood drenched, but he didn't give that a second thought either. The bleeding had finally stopped anyway, the hole in his had sealed up tight by the mud that had packed itself inside it. He was so close now, and he couldn't let what he knew was buried deep beneath him slip away.

He'd gotten a good four feet down, when he collapsed, chest tight, finding it hard to take in any air. He struggled to sit up, struggled to breath, struggled to cry out, but found enough breath to form just one word.

"No!"

"No what, Dean? Your time's almost up. I'm afraid you just weren't fast enough. Rules are rules, you know."

"Just let me finish, please. After all this, it can't end now," he managed to spit out, still trying to catch a full breath.

"Oh, all right. Your begging appeals to my softer side. Just because you have such a fighting spirit, I'll turn my back for just a few more minutes, but keep that between us, won't you. Some others around here may think I'm getting soft, and I can't let that happen. Besides, I said your time was almost up, I didn't say it was. I really just wanted to hear you beg, I like it in the tone of you voice."

Suddenly, Dean could breath again, and ignoring the anger welling inside him, he frantically returned to his digging. He worked feverishly, faster then he had at the start. Fear was a great motivator. Fear of losing Sam, fear of losing what was almost in his reach. Finally, he hit something hard, and he scrambled to brush the remaining dirt off the top. With a firm grip on the lid, he ripped open the casket, praying he'd been right about what was inside. Looking down, he could only let out a long, harsh cry.

"Dean," the gruff voice said to him, placing a hand on his knee.

"Dad."