Here ya go! A little bit of a longer chapter for ya. :) I really hope to hear from all of you on what you think...this one was hard to write. Anyway, am off to the grandpa's tomorrow to help repaint, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to get any writing done the rest of the week. I'll try to get another chapter of Time's Lessons up this week though, at least. The grandpa has dial-up, so it's not great, but it works. We'll see. Anyway, enjoy! I can't wait to hear from ya'll! Thanks so much; ya'll are great!

Note: Excuse me if I end up being a little dramatic here, but one of Loki's latest SPN videos is still in my head, and I kept listening to Coldplay's "Fix You" while I was writing the chapter. :P

Chapter 19

Sam was awake when Dean got up the next morning, but he hadn't gotten out of bed yet. Dean didn't even know his brother's eyes were open until he was halfway across the room; he turned at a faint sound and realized Sam was looking at him.

"Hey," he said in surprise, blinking once or twice.

Sam let out a breath. "Hey."

They both fell silent and Dean stood at the foot of the beds, shifting awkwardly. "Well, that's been overdone," he said after a moment, attempting a smirk. It came out at half-mast, but his brother smiled in return anyway. Sam laughed, too, and it was a little weak but it was genuine. "So…you feeling any better?"

Sam sat up slowly. "Yeah, I'm okay."

No. He wasn't okay, but Dean would take what he could get.

"Okay…so…what do you want to do?"

"Do?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah. Do. There's still the case in Louisiana, but we don't have to go back there; we could let Bobby take care of it…"

"No," Sam said quickly. "It's okay. We should go back."

"You sure?"

He nodded firmly. "Yeah."

"Okay. Louisiana it is, then." Sam smiled briefly in thanks—for the lack of argument, no doubt—and Dean managed to smile back a bit before pulling out his phone to check for any messages that might have come during the past day-and-a-half in which he and Sam had been holed up here on the edge of Jackson.

When he saw the list of missed calls his mouth dropped open. "Holy crap."

Sam paused in the process of getting out of bed. "What?"

"Bobby's called like a gillion times in the past day or so."

"How did you not hear the phone that many times?"

"I don't know…oh. It's on silent. I must have bumped it or something. Crap." He turned the ring volume up again and dialed Bobby's number.

The older hunter picked up on the first ring. "It's about damn time. Why the hell haven't you called me yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's going on?"

"What are you talking about? Everything's fine," Dean said quickly, exchanging glances with Sam.

"Fine? I got some kind of call, something about a donor, and looking for Sam, and everything's fine? What the hell was that? Did they even get a hold of you?"

Dean grimaced. Shit. He looked at Sam, who was up and curious, but he knew this wasn't going to be pretty. He held up a finger as a signal to wait, and slipped quickly out into the parking lot.

By the time Sam made it out of the bathroom his brother was back inside, and he opened the door just in time to witness Dean throwing his phone across the room.

"Uh…Dean?"

His brother dropped onto the edge of one of the beds. "He knows."

"Bobby?"

"Yes."

"Knows what?"

Dean just looked at him, and the only word he could think of to describe the expression there was frazzled. "No…"

His brother nodded wearily.

Sam's chest clenched painfully. "What? How? How the hell does he know? Did you tell him?!"

"No, Sam, I did not tell him. They called him first looking for you, so he'd heard about the donor."

"I thought they were supposed to call your cell first."

"They did. I didn't wake up the first time." Dean sighed miserably. "Anyway, Bobby was trying to get in touch with us about it, and obviously he was a little pissed that no-one had called him back until now. He was worried. I had to tell him what happened."

Sam trudged to the other bed and sat carefully, scowling. "Damnit."

"Yeah," his brother echoed.

They sat in silence until Dean stood. "Come on; let's get out of here."

"Are we still going to Louisiana?"

"Of course we are."

Sam looked at his brother for a moment, and finally shrugged and stood. "Fine. I'm ready."

Dean returned the oxygen generator to the car, and that was really all they'd brought in. Anything else was rounded up and stashed in the trunk, and once they'd finally changed clothes they were ready to go.

It took Sam that long to manage to ask the next question.

"Is Bobby okay?" he asked as they headed out.

Dean stopped just short of the motel room door, barely looking over his shoulder. "What do you mean is he okay? He's Bobby."

Sam winced. "He has feelings too, Dean," he said quietly.

His brother let out a breath and turned to face him. "So I gathered. He spent long enough shouting through the phone with them." Sam's mouth opened, but Dean held up a hand. "He's fine, Sam. He cooled off, and he's fine. Or…I guess he's about like us, but he'll be fine. Okay?"

"Okay…" He swallowed and paused. "Is he mad at us for not calling?"

"Of course he's pissed, but not at us—mostly. I told you; he'll be fine."

Dean turned to go out to the car, but Sam couldn't help asking one more time. "You're sure he's all right?"

His brother turned to him again, letting out a single bark of laughter. "Typical," he said, shaking his head.

"What?" he scowled.

"Typical," Dean repeated. "Just…typical you. All this crap, and you're worried about Bobby?"

Sam didn't see what was so strange. "Of course I am. He cares just as much as we do. That was why we didn't want to bother him about this in the first place, and—" Before he could finish his train of thought Dean was on him, folding him into a careful but firm embrace. "Dean?" His brother didn't answer at first, and he tentatively brought his own arms around in return. "Dean?"

Dean took a while to answer, but it wasn't so horrible standing there in his brother's arms. It didn't even seem too strange, given the recent weeks. What made it strange was what Dean said, when he finally spoke.

"Sammy…whatever Dad said, or how he acted, ever, don't think he wasn't proud of you, okay? Maybe you never turned into the perfect hunter he wanted us both to be, but he was proud of how you turned out. He was just too damn stubborn to tell you."

"What?" he asked weakly.

Dean pulled back enough to look at him, but still clung to his arms for a moment. "You're a good kid, and he knew that," he said quietly, clapping Sam gently on the back as he let him loose. "Not that you're a kid anymore, or anything. Anyway…" He cleared his throat went for the door. "We should go."

"Right…"

Dean was out the door in seconds, but Sam stood where he was for a long moment, watching his brother.

That had been…good, right? It was good. It was good know. Painful now, but…good to know. Still, he could understand why his throat might feel tight, and why his eyes might be stinging—why they were.

But that wasn't it at all. What Dean had told him wasn't what bothered him.

What bothered him was Dean.

Dean never just up and told him things like that. He rarely opened up, and Sam had shown his penchant for caring more about others than himself many times before without any reaction that pointed.

The opening-up should have been a good thing. But if it was a good thing, why did it hurt? Why did it feel like Dean was already starting to let go?

"Dean…"

Don't.

So it was back to Louisiana—back to the motel in Gonzales with it's washed-out pink door and trim and it's high wooden fence that tried to give the illusion the place was isolated despite the fact that it sat right off Airline Highway, the busiest thoroughfare in the city.

After a stop back near the state line for lunch they were back by early afternoon, and were given the same room as before. They were barely settled into the room when Sam asked about the case.

"So what's the story here?"

"Ah, something in a smaller local tabloid paper Bobby saw a copy of online. Some kid claims to have seen a small figure in his room—sometimes on fire, and sometimes just looking burned. He thinks it's after him, and apparently they're trying to figure out if the kid's off his rocker or there's something going on there."

Sam winced. "Someone could have died in the house."

Dean shrugged. "Could have."

"Got the address?"

He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it off to his brother as Sam passed, headed for the table with his laptop.

"I'll see what I can dig up on the history of the house. If I don't come up with anything I let you know; we may have to hit the library."

Dean nodded. "And tomorrow we'll head over and talk to the family."

Sam nodded as he set up his computer, plugging in the power and the internet and opening it. "Sounds good to me."

Back to business then. Good. Business he could handle. Ghosts and poltergeists and demons he could handle.

Dean didn't know if he could handle what he'd realized the night before last.

"Mrs. Jaden, when did you purchase the house?" Sam asked. He knew the rest of the history, but the most recent purchase was too recent to have been in the library's records he'd perused the night before. Now he, Dean, and the mother of the family—the only person home—were in the living room of the house. Mrs. Jaden was sitting back heavily in the sofa, while Sam and Dean perched on the armchairs across the coffee table.

"Uhm, about six months ago. It was a steal, really. We felt so lucky to find a house this nice at a price so low," she answered distractedly. "So…what did you say this was for?"

"We're from another paper, just following up on the initial interview you and your husband and son gave—getting more detail and checking facts. There may be another article of our own later as the situation develops."

"Oh…all right," the woman said uncertainly.

Dean sat forward. "So you say the house was cheap?"
"Extremely. We felt so blessed, but now this happens…and I don't know what to think. I suppose it doesn't really have anything to do with the house, but why now? Why is my son seeing things? It can't be real, but he can't be crazy; Tucker's always been such a smart boy, and I—"

"Ma'am, take it easy," Sam soothed. "Maybe we can help."

She blinked. "You can?"

Dean shot him a look, but relaxed once he answered. "Absolutely. You right; this doesn't necessarily mean there's anything wrong with him. Maybe if…another article takes a different stance, his case will be taken more seriously, and you can fix this. If anything's wrong at all."

Mrs. Jaden sighed. "I suppose that's one way to look at it. I would appreciate it. I can't stand to go outside anymore; too many people look at us and just…laugh. I had no idea that other paper would make it sound so bad, like some cock-a-meme ghost story." She glanced up and her eyes flashed. "You won't, will you?"

"Of course not," Dean smiled. "Now, if you could just answer a few more questions…?"

As they pulled away half an hour later Sam glanced back at the house once before settling in. "So did you get anything on the EMF?"

"It was everywhere, but mostly in the kid's room, like we thought. Next time though, I'm not gonna be the one asking to use the friggin' bathroom."

Sam chuckled. "Whatever. So are you coming back tonight?"

"Yeah, we'll come back tonight and stake the place out."

He raised an eyebrow, and Dean huffed. "Yes, you can come, but you're staying in the car. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

They rode quietly for a moment, before Dean popped up with another question. "Hey, if we kill this and there's no more reason for anybody to think her kid's crazy, how're you gonna do what you said you could about that? We're not really from a newspaper. We can't put any story out."

Sam shrugged. "I'll post something anonymously on the internet. Everyone knows the web gets more circulation than those stupid papers anyway."

"True, but…"

"But what?"

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment. "Or you could write the rebuff and send it in to one of those stupid papers. Maybe they'd pick it up."

Sam stared at him. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"Last time I checked, you write pretty good. Why not actually get it printed—especially if it'll help that family get their face back."

"Like I said, I'll do that over the internet. It's a lot easier, anyway."

"Sure, but it doesn't get you in print."

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam complained. "Why do you care?"

"What? What's wrong with it? Doesn't everybody want to see their name in print? I don't write, but even I think that would be cool."

He huffed. "It wouldn't even be my name; that would be way too dangerous right now."

"So? You'd still know you did it?"

"Oh yeah; getting printed in a tabloid or town paper in the back-end of nowhere would be such a huge achievement," Sam snorted sarcastically.

And somehow, Dean looked hurt. "Geez…I just thought it'd be cool."

Sam stared at him for a moment longer, taking in the expression and going back over everything his brother had said. Finally he slumped back into his seat, barely noticing the ache in his chest for the lump in his throat.

There it was again—Dean, acting for a moment as if he were preparing more for the worse than for the better.

It still hurt.

Sam was quiet until they made it back to the motel again, and Dean had to prod him as they went inside before he said anything.

"Hey, so what else did you find yesterday? About the house?"

His brother snapped out of whatever stupor he'd been in and went over to his computer to pick up a folder of printouts and copies he'd brought back from the library.

"Yeah, uhm…it's only bout fourty years old, but in 1979 a five-year-old boy names Seamus Smith fell into the fireplace. They got him out, but he'd sustained too many third degree burns. He died two days later."

Dean scowled. "Damn. I hate stuff like that. Dealing with kid ghosts sucks."

Sam nodded and closed the folder. "So we officially think it's the kid?"

"I don't see any other explanation right now. Either he's just upset and scared and can't move on, or he went psycho and really is after the Jaden kid. We've seen that before."

"Yeah, but that little girl was a psycho killer before she died."

"It's still possible."

"I guess so."

"Did you get where funky-name-boy is buried?"

"Yes, I got that too."

Dean crossed his arms. "Good. All we have to do is stake out the place until he shows up again, and make sure it's him. If that's all it is, we torch the bones and we're out of here."

Sam opened the folder again for a moment, and pulled out a single sheet. "Here's a picture. It's grainy, from a newspaper, but it's all I could find. There's no family left around here to talk to; they all moved out of town after the accident, so..."

Dean took it and squinted at it, memorizing the likeness so he could recognize the ghost later if he needed to, but quickly handed it back. The kid looked a little too much like Sam at that age for his nerves to handle right now.

The house was silent until nearly midnight. That was when the screaming started.

Dean was out of the car and around the back of the single-story house within moments, and Sam sat anxiously in the car, moving over into the driver's seat to wait.

He saw a faint burst of orange flame through the bedroom window, and heard the shotgun more than once over the Jaden's boy's screams, but at the angle he was sitting from the window he couldn't see anything else inside.

Another bright orange burst, another shot, then everything went quiet…and Sam went reflexively for the door handle. "Dean, come on…" If he didn't see his brother coming back in another three seconds, he was going in.

No. There. It was Dean, coming back around by the bushes and hurrying across the street. He hopped into the passenger's seat and quickly closed the door. "Get going."

"Is everything okay in there?"

"It is for now, but we might want to be out of here before the parents start looking for whoever was in their kid's room."

Sam took the hint and quietly pulled away from the curb to head back for the highway. As they passed the house he could really see through the window he'd been focused on a moment ago, and found a frightened Mr. and Mrs. Jaden clutching their son between them.

"Do they know what happened? What did happen? Was it the boy from '79?"

"Oh, it was the kid all right," Dean shuddered. "Creepy as hell, too. I'm pretty sure he was after Tucker, but a few shots sent him into oblivion for a while. We gotta get to that cemetery. It's not far, right?"

"No, not far."

Dean relaxed a little at that. "Good. Anyway, no, the Jadens don't know what happened. I was outta there before they made it to the kid's room."

Sam nodded in response, grateful for that. Tucker was too young to remember much of this, and soon it would be a distant nightmare. His parents would never know it had ever been anything but, and another family was saved the experience of discovering what was really out there.

When they found the grave Dean wouldn't let him help dig it, and Sam was relegated to guard duty—pacing the top of the whole with his sawed-off, keeping an eye out just in case the spirit wasn't confined to the house. In the end there was no trouble. Dean climbed out, waited for Sam to spread the salt, and dropped the match.

"So that wasn't so bad," Dean said on the way back to the motel, now back at the wheel. "Neither was Missouri, really. So…I guess you were right about the whole hunting thing. You know? It's turning out okay. Ohio was just a fluke. We'll be fine."

Sam gave an uncomfortable half-smile. "Yeah, sure. Fine." He wanted to be fine. He would have accepted that comment whole-heartedly if Dean hadn't been acting so strange since Jackson.

He quickly changed the subject. "Nice scorch marks."

Dean glanced down at himself. "Yeah, so much for this shirt, but I'm fine. Might need to put something on 'em for a day or two, but I think that'll be it."

"Good. Good…"

Neither of them said anything the rest of the way back, and Sam retreated quickly to the shower.

He made it quick, but it was still hard to breathe in there. He was gulping air when he made it out of the bathroom, and Dean was still awake. He quickly clicked the television off, but not before Sam realized he'd brought the VCR in from the car. He'd been watching the tape.

Dean looked at him for a long moment, stricken, Sam frozen in the bathroom doorway with a fist clenched over his chest as he pulled in slow, difficult breaths. Then they both looked away, and made quick work of getting to bed. Neither of them said a word the rest of the night.

Neither of them were fine.

Sam might not make it. He could lose Sam.

Dean hadn't even let himself consider the possibility before, but now it seemed to be screaming at him from every corner.

Sam might not make it.

How was he supposed to deal with that? He'd refused to think about it before, and he didn't want it think about it now. He just had no choice now—not after what had happened. It was a rude awaking—a realization anew that not everything worked out in their favor. He should have known it, after everything they'd been through. It was the one lesson he should have learned by now.

He could lose Sam.

How could he lose Sam? He'd already lost Mom, then Dad. Now Sam was slipping away right in front of him.

Dean didn't want everything to be strange. That conviction still stood. He wanted normalcy…or what was normalcy for them. He wanted to pretend nothing was wrong until nothing was. But common sense slipped out to bite him in the ass every now and then, and he would do something…say something…

Dean couldn't prepare himself. He knew he never could. He knew if he lost Sam it would rip him to shreds. There was no way to change that.

But he could be here for Sam. He could help Sam. If he couldn't save his brother—if making it easier for Sam to move on when his time came was the last thing Dean could do before it was over and he lost his sanity—then so be it. He never wanted it to come that, but he'd be damned if he let Sam die with regrets. He'd be damned if he let Sam die at all, but…

So he let himself open up. Just sometimes.

Sometimes was better than never, right? It hurt, and he knew it hurt Sam, too, but the damn common sense knew they needed it—or thought they needed it.

Sometimes he just wasn't sure anymore…wasn't sure of anything; not of what he was supposed to do, or what would happen, or of anything.

Sometimes the uncertainty was more hell than the thought of losing Sam.

When Dean was four, he'd been able to carry Sam down the stairs and out of the house and away from the fire. No matter what had happened when they were kids, he'd always been able to do something to protect his brother. When Jessica died, he'd been able to get Sam out of California and away from some of the pain and the memoires. He'd helped his brother rebound, helped him find life after the lost love. Since then he'd tried to always be there. He'd saved Sam and Sam and had saved him, more than once.

But now there was nothing he could do. He could be there, but it wasn't the same. He could look for a way to fix this, but with each failed prospect the frustration mounted.

Nothing came of any of it in the end.

For the first time in his life, Dean felt truly helpless. For the first time in his life, Dean had absolutely no idea what to do anymore.

Sam had thought he would be the one to tailspin, as things got worse. Instead, he watched his brother do it.

Dean's moods came and went. One moment he was calm, opening up a bit, sharing something-or-other about their childhood, about Dad, about Mom, about anything. Or he was trying, in his own jerky, uncertain, but sincere way, to show Sam that he loved him, that he was proud of him…sometimes in words, sometimes not.

The next moment he was shutting down and throwing himself into the next hunt, the next case, the next job. Always the hunt, the case, the job.

Dean was all at once distant and closer than he'd ever been; lovingly near and farther away than ever before. He looked after his brother more than he ever had in his life, but Sam could still feel him pulling away.

He didn't understand at first, but as it became harder to breathe, as he reluctantly began using the oxygen while in the motels during the day as well as at night…as he saw Dean staring at him more and more, he understood.

Dean loved him. That much he knew. Dean didn't want anything to happen to him. He didn't want to think that anything could, but every day he saw evidence to the contrary. Part of Dean was pulling away from the pain, preparing for the end; while the rest of him denied its possibility, clinging stubbornly to the hunt, the jokes, the normal…the essence of what had become their life together over the past two years.

The conflict was already beginning to tear Dean apart, and the only thing that hurt worse than watching it and not being able to stop it was the memory of his words in the motel parking lot outside Jackson that night.

I should have just stayed.

What if he'd meant it?

Well…maybe he should have. Maybe he should have stayed. Sam didn't want his brother to be suffering this way any more than Dean wanted any of this to be happening either. But…he needed Dean. Sam didn't want Dean to hurt, but he didn't want to let go of him.

Dean couldn't settle between letting go and holding on, and the worst thing was that Sam didn't know which one he would rather his brother chose.