A/N: Well this is the last chapter. Sorry it took a few days but things here got a little busy. This is sort of a short chapter and epilogue together, I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 15

Abigail drew a stuttering breath, forcing air through charred lips into an equally singed airway, grimacing at the burning cough the simple act produced. Shriveled fingers grasped the fall browned leaves, struggling for enough purchase to hoist herself up. She had no idea how long she'd been on the ground, likely a number of days, and no clear idea of where she was. The seared remains of her house were nowhere in sight as she finally managed to sit up, burnt flesh cracking and falling away in pieces to reveal peeks of bone. No matter. She'd been an old hag of a witch once before; she could restore herself again. It would take years, and yards of, er, borrowed skin, but she could do it.

The harder part would be rebuilding the destroyed coven. Oh, young witches might be a dime a dozen, but ones with true talent, ones you wanted as a sister for centuries, now that was another matter. She'd have to choose carefully. Of course any that didn't end up being satisfactory could always contribute to that pesky replacement skin problem, she supposed….

Assuming she was going to live centuries more. As her mind cleared of fog, the last moments in the fire came back to her. She hadn't finished the spell she'd been desperately carving into Dean Winchester's body, the spell she'd done so many times before to ensure another four generations of life for herself and the others. Once she healed to some extent she'd have to take care of that. The boy was no doubt dead in the ashes of the house somewhere and his bones could buy her some time, but in the end she'd have to find the right spell to link her coven to another family of hunters now that there would be no Winchester heir. The task was daunting, like everything else supernatural, the hunter population was dwindling. Not that she minded dwindling it just a bit more. It might not have the soft texture she wanted, but the first person she was in the mood to skin was John. Someday, Winchester, I'll have retribution for what you've done….what you've reduced me to….

For now though, she'd have to find Dean's remains the hard way. She still couldn't understand why her last spell didn't work. She'd abandoned the more complex ritual on his chest to perform a simple locator spell so she could come back for the boy, use him as she needed. There had been plenty of time to complete it in the house and she'd even repeated the words the following dawn, trying to find the error, but there wasn't one. She didn't want the link with John, so she'd carefully specified the youngest Winchester, knowing that should raise a branded mark on Dean's wrist. But it hadn't appeared. Not even a welt, no satisfying scream from the child. It was worth scrying for the binding anyway she supposed, especially if he had survived somehow. No, no he couldn't have. Both the little brats were dead and that would have to console her until she could get her hands on the father. Now that would be a day to cherish, to plot and plan for, dreams to sustain her. Visions of John screaming wove their way into her mind, releasing a cackling mirth that silenced the forest for miles…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jim paced the pine planks of his living room, wondering when he'd actually succeed in wearing a trough in the floor. Sammy sat huddled in the corner of the couch, arms clasped around his knees, subtly rocking himself through another coughing spell. The last few days the kid barely spoke to him, offering monosyllabic answers to direct questions without lifting his eyes from the floor. The cough wasn't helping him feel any less miserable, although the pastor supposed it shouldn't be any surprise the child was sick after a half dressed ride across the lake in the autumn air.

"Sam? Why don't you take some cough syrup and go on up to bed? I know you were hoping your Dad would be here by now, but even John slows down for this weather. He'll be here as soon as he can Sammy." Jim realized that really wasn't who the youngster was desperate to see. "Dean will be here as soon as he can… So the cough syrup?""

"No thanks." Sam dropped his forehead to knees, his answer barely audible.

Jim considered a minute, then crossed the room to sit and wrap an arm around Sam's shoulders. "Dean's fine, Sammy. You've talked to your Dad on the phone every morning the past seven days and I know he's told you. He's told me too. Dean had pneumonia and he has to take a few more days of medicine, but he's much better. He's just hoarse, that's all. Would you eat a little?"

"No." The tone was a mere shade over a whisper.

"All you've had today is a slice of toast, and I'm not sure you even had that yesterday. I could make you some soup?"

"No. Please..."

The defeated tone made it pointless to ask again. Only one thing was going to help the youngest Winchester, and it wasn't Jim Murphy. "Ok. They'll be here later, may as well get some sleep until then. They are coming back, son, you know that."

"Don't." The coughing was back before he could elaborate.

"You don't know? Yes, Sam, they are. Sorry, but I'm going insist on some medicine. John'll have my hide if he gets here and you're sicker than Dean." The slack expression on Sam's mainly hidden face gave the cleric little hope that the sunny child he knew was still in there.

"There you go." He set the teaspoon back on the table, and then offered a hand to pull Sam up. "Let's get you upstairs."

The hand went ignored, but Sam did stand up to follow him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John pulled the impala into the graveled driveway three hours later, entering the house in a whirlwind of rain, sleet, and dead leaves, propelling a mostly asleep Dean in front of him. He steered him to the couch, softly snorting in amusement when Dean pulled the pillow over his head without ever cracking an eye to confirm he was at Pastor Jim's. So much for hunter instincts tonight.

The elder Winchester and the pastor unloaded everything from the car and settled on the screened in porch to talk. The air was absolutely biting and the screen didn't keep all of the sideways rain from blowing in, but neither man wanted to wake the boys. Besides, Jim had a penchant for watching storms, the worse the better, as if there wasn't enough turmoil in his world.

A crack behind the house ripped Dean from sleep, bolting him upright. Thunder? No, the settling creaks that followed eventually seeped into his befuddled, half drugged brain. A tree had fallen. A quick glance outside confirmed that moving shapes carrying flashlights, presumably his father and Jim, were already headed to the backyard and no doubt would take care of anything that couldn't wait until morning. He briefly considered joining them, but he didn't even remember arriving and the only thing he wanted to do right now was find his brother.

He flicked the switch on the lamp, groaning when that produced no illumination. The feeble light from the storm-darkened night sky was worthless, not a glimmer of moon poked through. Dean felt his way to the kitchen, wandering fingers confirming the flashlights were missing from the shelf. Figures. The drawer by the stove was more useful, yielding a couple of candles. He lit one, ignoring the memories the tiny flame produced, and made his way upstairs, assuming his brother was in the guest room.

And stopped cold at the threshold. He'd expected a PJ clad Sammy burrowed deep in mangled covers, a few wisps of hair the only evidence of his existence. That's what he'd come to expect over many cold nights in cheap motels. But that wasn't what met his eyes. Sammy was flat on his back in the middle of the over sized bed, atop the bedspread, tennis shoes peeking out from the bottom edge of a dark wool throw blanket while his grey sweatshirt was visible at the top. His hands were folded across his stomach, carefully arranged on a cover that was completely without wrinkles. The pale face looked sallow in the flickers of the candlelight.

He looks … he looks dead…. Dad never gave me the phone…. Told me we'd talk when we got to Jim's….. I had to get better first….. Looks dead….. Sammy???.....oh God…..I let that bastard take him and…… no….Dad hides things when he thinks it's safer, but……not this…..no…no, no…...S-Sammmmyy????

Dean didn't feel his feet drag him across the floor, didn't feel his knees buckle as he sank onto them. He didn't feel his hand ghost over the nubbed comforter, his chest lean into the side of the mattress, or his forehead come to rest on the bed. No….. I'm so sorry Sammy…..no…. I believed Dad, but……..no, no, No, No, NO!

He didn't feel the slight shift of the bedding, the trembled breath as hazel eyes snapped open. He didn't think he'd feel anything ever again…. ….

….until he did. Thin arms snaked suddenly around his neck, the force of the jump knocking him backwards to the floor, laughing bundle of little brother thumping onto his chest, earsplitting squeal in his ear.

"DEAN!!!!!"

.

EPILOGUE

The papers scattered over the desk couldn't compete with the window view for John Winchester. Dean was propped in an old lawn chair of Jim's, jacket bundled against the fall air, while Sammy sat on the ground, head tipped back against his brother's knee as he twirled a reddened maple leaf. He couldn't tell what they were talking about, but it didn't make any difference. The ring of open laughter, the conspiratorial smiles and evident dimples drifted into the open kitchen, his sons in a rare moment as two carefree boys wasting a Saturday afternoon.

Stifling a smile of his own, John reluctantly returned to the photocopies he'd collected over the last two weeks, sorting his three piles once more. The first two he'd been sharing with Jim, tying up loose ends from the hunt. None of the circle and triangle patterns in the photographs before him exactly matched the ones he knew were lurking on his boys' skin, although he'd found one very similar to the mark on Sam. Jim thought it was basically a pointer spell, a way for a witch to find her prey. The symbol on Dean didn't match the pictures for a totally different reason. It simply wasn't completed. John turned the photo of the finished version facedown, knowing that if the final letters of sororitas had made in onto his son's chest there would have been no rescue. He'd come that close to burying his eldest.

The third pile John kept to himself. Of all things he's researched in seven years of hunting, his family tree hadn't been one of them. When Dean confirmed Sammy's statement about Abigail killing Winchesters before, he started digging. And there it was. Every fourth generation as far back as he could trace, an oldest son had been found dead. Some were recorded as accidents, some murders, but somewhere between ages nine and fourteen, they all died. His great grandfather's older brother had been discovered floating in the family pond. A three foot deep pond for a ten year old child that reportedly was a good swimmer. How could he not have known? What else about his family, or Mary's for that matter, lay hidden? Goodness knows his own father was a tight lipped one whenever relatives came up. Dammit Dad…

John stood, stretching before tucking the papers away and heading for the backyard. He was certain Abigail Williams had survived, and equally certain that was a temporary situation. She wouldn't need a branded spell to find the Winchesters. Nope, not gonna be waiting around for that. I'll find you witch, count on it. And when I do…..

FINIS.

A/N: All done! Please let me know what you think, I'd love to know, good, bad, or indifferent. And yes, there is intended to be a follow up story to this one, but it isn't written yet. I expect it will be a month or so before I can work on it as I have to finish another piece first. I may post another story here in the meantime if anyone is interested. Let me know about that, too. Hope you enjoyed it.