Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warning: Character Death.

Author's Note: So, I left the last chapter in a pretty nasty cliffhanger. Sorry. But, this is the last chapter, just a short one to basically wrap things up. Um, hope you liked it, and thanks for reading!

Chapter 11: Winning and Losing

There was a single moment of emptiness, of nothingness, or pure silence.

There was a resounding bang.

There was a long, chilled scream.

And then the world returned to that blissful silence that had covered it only moments ago.

Dean dropped to the ground as the barn descended into silence. His heart beat erratically, and his head pounded to a steady rhythm. John landed nearby and didn't move. He couldn't believe what had just happened.

A shadow passed over him and he looked up at the demonic haze hovering above his little brother. Sam lay on the tabletop, surrounded by the shattered legs of the bench he had been leaning against. After years of rotting, the wooden legs had been worn, and hadn't been able to take Sam's weight. The noise of Sam falling had been deafening.

As he watched, the demon didn't reform, didn't move, just hovered there, staring at Sam. And Sam stared back, relief and fury mixing strangely on his face. Unmoving, Dean could only watch. There seemed to be something going on between the two, something unseen and dangerous.

The Colt lay almost forgotten between Dean and Sam, having been jarred from the younger's grip as he landed hard on the ground.

Then Sam suddenly looked away, wincing. And the demon pounced.

It regained a physical form somehow, or one that looked physical. It vaguely resembled a man, only with long fingers that ended in claws and a blurred face that was oddly egged shaped.

As Dean watched it took those inhuman fingers and plunged them into Sam's temples. Once more screams shook the barn.

Dean shook himself from the daze he had entered and looked at the Colt for the first time. Deciding quickly, he sprung to his feet, needing only that added distance to scoop up the antique gun. He cocked the trigger, aimed, and fired.

The demon disappeared a split second before the bullet could hit. Sam slumped to the ground as Dean heard the bullet hit the wooden walls of the barn.

He let the last bullet enter the chamber, waiting in hope that the bitch would reappear. He wanted so badly to hurt it. But he wasn't completely obsessed about it. Senses trained on the barn, he moved to Sam.

"Sammy?" he asked, hoping for an answer. He didn't let the gun drop, but used his other hand to check for a pulse as his eyes scoured the room.

He jumped and almost pulled the trigger as a hand gripped his wrist. He looked down and stared into Sam's eyes, deciding instantly that those puppy dog looks were the most beautiful thing on the face of the earth.

Sam didn't let him speak. "Wait," he struggled to get out. Dean knew he was close to unconsciousness. "It… 'll come… back. Wait."

He was panting by the end, face screwing up in some unseen pain. Dean waited, senses on hyper as he did so. He waited for Sam's order to shoot.

The grip around his wrist tightened. "By Dad… Now!"

Dean stood, wrenching his wrist from Sam's grip, and spun to face the prone form of his father. He pulled the trigger and the demon appeared the second before the bullet hit it.

It shrieked, but didn't shrivel up as Dean had imagined it would. Then again, Dean hadn't known that in its shadow form, the demon was just as invulnerable to bullets as ghosts. Still, the demon screamed in pain. And then it disappeared in one long shriek.

Below him Sam slumped, breathing heavily now. Dean took it as a sign the demon was gone for good. Or for now, at least. He dropped the gun. The now useless gun. Without the bullets…

He knelt beside his little brother, not caring that he had lost his family's only known way of destroying what they had vowed to destroy years ago. He knew he had wounded it. And if he hadn't they would have all died.

"Sammy?" he questioned, taking a hold of Sam's hand. The younger man opened his eyes.

"Fine…" he whispered. "Tired… sore… Dad?"

At the thought of the Winchester patriarch Sam's eyes filled with guilt and his hand gripped Dean's back. "Check on… Dad… alive? I think I killed him Dean."

Dean looked across. John appeared to be breathing. It also appeared to be laboured. But he felt torn. Sam needed help. Probably a hospital.

Sam shook his hand and brought him crashing back to Earth. "Dad, Dean… please… no hospital."

And with that his eyes closed. Dean panicked for a moment, checking hurriedly for a pulse. He found one, thankfully and surprisingly strong. Not as strong as it should be, but more so than he had imagined it would.

Hoping Sam would be okay while he lay there unconscious, Dean crawled across to his father and rolled the man over. What he saw shocked him.

"Dad!" he cried out, laying John out flat. He looked terrible. He was shaking, and pale, except where tracks of bright red blood flowed from his nose, mouth and ears.

"Oh, God, Dad!" he coughed, thumbing the older man's eyes to check for… anything. Some sign of life.

"Dean," John whispered, and the older son jumped once more, shocked that his father was aware.

"Dad, we've got to get you to a hospital. Jesus."

He couldn't believe the severity of the injuries. Intense internal bleeding. Had to be. He remembered his father's screams in his memory, though the memory was distant, like a dream. And he remembered what the demon had been doing to him, realizing John had got a heavier burst.

The realization must have crossed his face, because John nodded, his eyes filled with tears.

"Dad, you can't…" Dean began, falling slightly to the side. He felt numb. "Dad, you can't die."

"Too late, Dean," John answered softly before coughing. Dean flinched as he coughed up more blood, sickened by the sight of it bubbling over his father's lips. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you have to watch this."

Suddenly panicky, John flailed, looking for his son's hand. Dean grabbed it, saving his father the trouble and the energy, before getting back to his knees and leaning over, rubbing John's hand. The older hunter closed his eyes with a sigh.

When he opened them again, he looked so at peace that Dean felt like crying.

"Is Sam okay?" he asked, knowing the answer before Dean nodded. The younger man wouldn't be next to him if Sam hadn't been okay.

"He's… it's out of him, Dad. It's gone."

"Good," John nodded quietly. "Good. Don't you let him blame himself, Dean. Watch out for him."

"You know I will, Dad," he answered with a choke. "God, Dad, you can't go. We've still got to hunt this bastard down. Kill him…"

He trailed off as John shook his head. "Sorry, kiddo. No more hunting for me. It's up to you and Sam now… Dean…"

Somehow the older man looked up and kept his eyes focused on his son. He was losing blood fast, dying quicker and sooner than anyone had ever expected. But somewhere he found the strength to look into his son's eyes.

"Dean," he repeated. The younger man had to lean in to hear. "I'm so proud of you. You held this family together when we would have fallen apart so long ago. You… you…" He broke off into a coughing fit, and Dean found himself gripping his father's hand harder and harder. "Dean, you helped me through the toughest time of my life. You did the same with Sammy. I'm so proud of you Dean. I never told you that enough."

And he broke into another coughing fit as Dean found himself unable to hold back the tears anymore. He felt them make tracks down his face.

"Dad, you never had to tell me," he said once his father was silent again. He had no idea what to say. What did you say to a man who was dying in your arms? "Dad, please… you can't go now, we only just found you! Sammy… Just hold on. We'll get you to a hospital… Dad!"

John had closed his eyes, losing the strength to keep them shut. His breathing became more laboured.

"Dean," he whispered. "I love you. Tell Sammy I love him… and watch out for him."

There was one more coughing fit, great wracks made from blood heaving in places it shouldn't be in. Then John beckoned his son closer, and began whispering in his ear.

And as the great John Winchester died, Dean fell away, shocked beyond words.

When he finally did breathe, it was a hard, sobbing intake, as he tried to hold back the traitorous tears. He took to the impossible task with determination, and told himself it was a task in which he succeeded.

But in reality he knelt there for hours, crying silently over his dead father.

The next night.

The night was cloudless, the stars shining down brightly. The land was further illuminated by the hot fire burning in the middle of a field just outside of Cromwell, Alabama.

Dean Winchester stood facing the pyre, watching as his father's body burned. He watched silently, unmoving, not crying. He had done his grieving the night before, as John's body cooled, as Sam lay unconscious not five feet away, unaware that their father had passed.

Sam was aware now. Oh, he was aware, aware of every flame licking his father's body, because it licked his soul at the same time. He didn't cry either, though his reason was that he didn't deserve to. But in his heart it felt like a hole was growing, and he wished he were once more blind so he wouldn't have to watch his father burn for his failures.

As the minutes ticked into hours, Dean looked across at his baby brother. Sam was still weak, his body not working at times. And he was silent, guilt-driven, dogged by horrible memories of things his body had unwillingly committed. Like murdering his own father.

Dean looked back at the flames. Sam had only woken that afternoon. Dean had told him straight away. He had expected Sam to… well, to do something at least. He wasn't sure what. But instead the younger hunter had had Dean help him to his feet and over to the wrapped body of their father. And there he had sat, staring at nothing. Not speaking, not crying, while the night before Dean had poured his heart out. It had hurt them both, Sam's just sitting there.

He looked deep into the fire. He knew Sam blamed himself. And he knew he should say something.

"It wasn't your fault," Dean suddenly heard himself say. He didn't look across at Sam, didn't let his gaze fall from the flames. "It wasn't."

Sam didn't answer. In fact he made as much movement as Dean had made – none. They both just stood there silently, as one, watching the fire eat their father as John had watched it eat Mary.

At the same time the silence ate away at them, at their hearts and souls. As one.

So, that's it, lovelies. The end of Tortured Soul. The tale will continue, in another fic, if you want it to. Until then though, thanks and goodbye!