A/N: Love and much awesomeness to Madebyme, skag trendy, MysteryMadchen, Ash8, jenilee, Amberdreams, bhoney, hpsupernaturalfan, cindy123, supernatfem76, and Leahelisabeth.

Shifting his weight and running a hand across the back of his neck, Dean leans against the doorframe. Tired.

The adrenaline of the last few weeks has long since worn off, leaving Dean an unutterably exhausted shell. The pain meds he's been given for his shoulder probably aren't helping either.

His head feels cloudy, thick, and if he doesn't watch it, he'll pass out standing up. And that's all he needs, some Good Samaritan nurse or doctor - or worse, Jim - finding him sprawled on the floor or asleep standing and making him leave because he "needs the rest."

Not that he doesn't need the rest. He can't remember the last time he's slept more than an hour at a time; he's dead on his feet, and there's a pronounced pain between his shoulder blades in the middle of his back that's biting into his spine.

Darn it. He'd thought getting up and walking around would rouse him up a bit. Loosen muscles sore and aching from remaining in the same position for too long. Stupid hospital chairs. He should probably head back; Sam's sleeping, will wake up any day now, and Dean wants to be there – awake – when he does.

Inevitably, though, his feet keep finding this room.

He has no idea how much time passes, hasn't really been keeping track, but even zoning out doesn't dull a lifetime of training, and Dean's awake and razor sharp when a hand touches his shoulder.

He relaxes. Jim.

"Thought I might find you here." The light tone of voice matches the grip and Dean knows it's not entirely about comfort. Leave it to Jim to notice that Dean's been jumping at every sound, foolishly checking every corner of every room, sizing up every person he comes in contact with. He can't help it that his guard's up. Sam will be lucky if Dean ever lets him leave his sight again.

Because this…this isn't happening again. Ever.

The touch disappears, replaces with a cynical, "You don't look so hot."

A smile hovers at the corners of Dean's mouth. "Yeah, well, I still get more action than you."

Jim moves so that he's leaning on the opposite side of the doorframe. "Yeah well, celibate, remember? What's your excuse?"

"Ouch." And the hovering turns to actual smiling before he notices Jim's hands aren't empty. "What'd you find out?"

Jim holds out the small stack of papers and then nods toward the unconscious figure resting in the hospital bed. "His name is Justin Wheeler. Eighteen years old."

Dean shakes his head. The picture on top is that of a much younger Justin. Bright-eyed. Smiling. Dorky haircut. "What is he? Fifteen in this picture?"

"Thereabouts."

Dean nods sadly. "Whatever. Too young to be caught up in all this."

"On that I can agree with you. I did some digging. His family was killed in a house fire that razed half the neighborhood before they were able to put it out. Police suspected arson, naturally, with a bit of homicide tacked on to the end, since the family's remains were found trapped in what they believed to be the pantry."

Dean shook his head as he perused the documents. Pictures had been taken of the residence. There really hadn't been much left to begin with. It had Vallis's name written all over it.

Jim continued. "Justin was sixteen at the time and had been a suspect. They had to track him down. He was across the state and staying with a friend. Kid gave a statement that he'd gotten into a fight with his father about a month before and had been kicked out ever since."

Dean huffs, glances back into the room. Well, that explained how Justin got away in the first place; Vallis had yet to miss a survivor, and when someone ticked him off, the whole family seemed to pay for it. Chances were, Vallis hadn't even known about the teenager when he went after the family. "Anything else? Kid say what the fight was about?"

"Yes, actually. He told the authorities that he'd separated from his family because of his father's 'questionable' activities."

"Makes sense then."

"It does?"

"Oh yeah. Standard mafia stuff. Don't you watch TV?"

"Not your kind of TV, I'm sure."

"Dad falls in with the bad crowd, then has a change of heart after his family finds out. There was probably some kind of big blowout where Justin just walked out."

It was easy to picture. It'd happened before. In a different family.

Dean sooo wasn't going there.

"So you think this Vallis killed his family 'cause the guy wanted out?"

"There's no way of knowing for sure, but that'd be my guess. Else someone could'a hired the old bastard to put the family down. You find anything on the little girl?"

"This one?"

Jim hands him a picture. The big brown eyes and bright smile are even more adorable than he remembers. "Yeah. Yeah, that's her." Cleaner. Chubbier. "How'd she survive the original fire?"

"She didn't."

"Come again?"

"Her name was Cora Wheeler, Justin's little sister, and she died in the house fire with the rest of the family."

So the little girl was a...? He didn't…? "That's impossible," is all Dean manages to get out.

"It's not impossible, Dean. You know that."

"No, I mean, it's impossible because ghosts are always tied to something. There was nothing left of the house. What was there for her to be tied to?"

"Well, we have no idea what Justin took with him when he left and what he had on him when he got shot. It could have been an article of clothing, a toy, a bracelet – anything. For all we know, it could have been something as simple as being tied to her only remaining family. "

It was rare, but it happened.

Dean takes a moment to process the information. "Well," he finally says, "That would explain why we haven't seen her around. Maybe she wasn't here for the long haul."

"There's lore on guardian spirits - where we get the idea of guardian angels today. They're spirits who hang around after passing to make sure their loved ones are taken care of."

"Yeah, well, if the munchkin was pullin' the guardian scene then she didn't do a very good job making sure her brother didn't do anything stupid."

"I never said it made sense."

"She could have been pulling a Crow."

"Crow?"

Dean has enough sarcasm left in him to look exasperated. "Come on, Jim. The Crow? Brandon Lee? Guy who gets murdered with his girl and comes back to kick ass? You know, put the wrong things right?"

Jim's only emotion to Dean's explanation is a single raised eyebrow.

"I swear, you've got no culture."

"Or maybe she only appeared in times of need."

That was even more rare, but still, it happened. Ghosts were mysterious like that. They played by a different set of rules than those of the living. Some were murderous, maniacal, and those were the ones that Dean had the most experience with. But there were also those who had the tendency to show up, like Jim said, in times of need. Rescuing hikers by leading them to safety, appearing to the weary or injured to keep them going until help arrived, manifesting to bring messages of comfort to their loved ones, to say that they are well and happy, and not to grieve for them.

Even death omens, which were usually viewed by believers as being bad, were ghosts trying to warn the living about a tragic event that, inevitably, couldn't be changed.

But Cora hadn't been a death omen. Sure, she'd appeared to her brother to comfort him after he'd been fatally wounded, but then she'd turned around and saved all their lives. She'd led Dean to Sam, and then disappeared to lead Jim to Justin and safety. And if Sam's delirium was anything to go by, he'd seen her too. It wouldn't surprise Dean if she'd appeared to his brother to comfort him, too.

"Dean?"

His name prompts him into realizing he's gone silent.

"Guess we'll never know, huh?" he finally says, then, glancing back at the unconscious figure, he adds, "I never got to thank her."

There's a glint in Jim's eye, one that's peaceful and knowing and makes Dean jealous just to see it. "I'm sure she knows, Dean," he says sagely. "I'm sure she knows."

"Sam?"

He blinks. Not really the best idea.

"Sam? Come on bro, talk to me."

There's white everywhere, bright and blinding and burning, and what dark, blurred shapes there are keep moving, dividing into twos, threes, melting into one and then moving again. It's enough to make Sam tighten his grip on the sides of the – bed?

He moves his lips, tries to call out for his brother, because Dean's always there and if anyone can make it right, can tell him what's going on, it's his brother. But then he remembers he's not supposed to have a brother, and he fades into, "No…no br'ther…Don' know…D'n…"

There's a hand on his forehead, a weight on his wrist.

"I'm right here Sam."

Dean? No…no, they couldn't have gotten Dean. No. Just, no.

Tears sting his eyes. Tears of rage, of aggravation, of powerlessness, and Sam flails. He's got to get up, got to get out of there, because Dean's not here and Dean's in danger and Dean needs him and he's got to warn his brother and…

"Take it easy." The hand on his forehead disappears, but not the grip on his wrist. If anything, it squeezes harder, and when Sam continues to fight, there's a restraining press on his collarbone.

"I need some help in here!" a slightly panicked voice calls. Then, "Take it easy, Sam. Just take it easy," and there's pain in the voice that even Sam can detect. "Don't worry. You're brother's…um…your brother's here. They didn't get him. He's safe."

Is it true? Can he really believe him? Because Sam wants to so badly. And the voice sounds so much like Dean's, but it can't be Dean's because…

…because…he can't remember why…

…why can't he remember?

There's a shuffling next to him. Then, "There now," a woman's voice whispers, "This'll help him rest."

And without his permission, Sam's limbs still, his breathing evens out, and he can feel the lethargy creeping through him, bringing with it blissful nothing.

This time, Sam welcomes it, lets it swallow him whole, because without his brother, he might as well be nothing.

The next time Sam wakes, it's to little pinpricks of sunshine assaulting his eyes. He blinks, annoyed at the offending rays. They're coming from the window by his bed. Hospital bed?

Hospital? Then Dean…?

Dean's pacing, his impatient stride taking him back and forth across the small room. And his brother's pacing is truly a sight to behold. Terrifying, if you don't know any better. He gives the impression of almost unbridled strength as he moves, lethal and sharp, and combined with an inherent grace that, to Sam, speaks volumes about his state of mind.

"Dean?" he says, and his voice is rough with disuse.

"Yeah Sam," Dean answers offhandedly.

The constant movement is making Sam dizzy. "Dude, would you stop pacing already?"

And Dean literally does a double take. It's comical, morbidly so, since Sam's waking up in a hospital bed to a brother who looks like he could unhinge at any moment. Besides, the look on Dean's face is far from amusing.

"Sam?" Dean says, halting in his step and immediately crossing the distance between them in a few short strides. Short, Sam thinks, because his brother's legs aren't that long, and really, am I giggling? What kind of painkillers am I on?

Whatever they are, they're good.

Dean's next to him, his hand on the plastic bar by Sam's head. Probably analyzing his inappropriate smirk. "Sam? You really with me this time, man?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'with it'."

Dean laughs at that, the sound strangled in his throat, and Sam really doesn't like the hysterical edge he hears tacked on to the end of it.

Now that he's looking, he doesn't like the yellowing bruises on Dean's face, or the arm that's banded to his chest. There's dark circles under his brother's eyes, too, and he looks pale…exhausted.

"Dean, what…?"

His brother detects the turn of the conversation and smiles wickedly. "Don't worry Sammy. Nurses love the Devil-may-care look."

Sam ignores his attempt at banter and tries to push himself up, only to wince as his ribs make their presence known. Loud and clear.

Something in Dean thaws and he sits on the edge of the bed. The hand on Sam's knee immediately calms him and his brother fixes him with a rare, affectionate smile. "Easy does it," he orders. "You wanna know the truth? It was close."

And Dean's eyes tell Sam that it had been closer than he's going to admit.

"You got knocked in the head pretty good, on top of a couple of cracked and broken ribs. The broken one caused some trouble on the inside and if you keep movin' you'll mess up the doc's handy work. And I'm done with this bedside-vigil crap, you hear me?"

Yeah. Yeah, he hears it. And everything else Dean isn't saying.

Sam isn't fooled by his brother's hard-edged soldier routine, but he's willing to let it go. If that's his way of coping, Sam's okay with that for now.

"Love ya too, ya jerk," Sam mumbles, slipping back down into the covers. You know, for a hospital bed, it isn't too bad…

Dean sputters something, probably obscene, but Sam's already too tired to care. And as he's drifting off, a hand covers his forearm. "I know you've got questions, dude. I'll answer them. I promise. Just…wake up, okay?"

He wants to answer, thinks he does, but it doesn't matter, because the hand, his brother's hand stays right where it is and Sam can fall asleep knowing his brother's there. Safe.

It isn't a conversation he's looking forward to, but Sam has a right to know.

The phone isn't cold against Dean's ear anymore, and his hand doesn't shake as he dials the number he now knows by heart.

"Sam awake?" Jim asks right off.

"Yeah. Lucid and everything. Even called me a jerk."

Dean can hear the smile and the longsuffering sigh on the other end. "That's my boy. I'll be on my way up there shortly. You hungry?"

"No…but there is something I'd like you to do before you come. Can you stop at the library?"

Jim comes and goes while Sam sleeps, choosing to sit with Justin most of the time since Sam has Dean and the kid has nobody, but he brings the items Dean needs, which is a good thing since Sam is going to want answers when he can finally hold a conversation without drifting off in the middle of it.

And when Sam does wake, Dean's waiting for him with their father's journal on his knee.

Gingerly sitting up – it'll be a while before he stops favoring his ribs - Sam's immediately aware that Dean's got something on his mind. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, looking entirely too young when he does it, then focuses on his brother, his voice unpretentious when he asks, "What'cha got dad's journal out for?"

Dean's only response is to toss it to him. It lands neatly in Sam's lap, and Sam glances at him, puzzled.

"Read it," Dean instructs.

For the first time in days - since the first day he woke up, actually - concern crosses Sam's features. "Why? Did you find a job? Are you leaving?"

Dean snorts. Seriously, only his brother would try to stop and analyze a situation when the answer was right in front of him. "No dumbass. Just read it."

"Why?"

Dean's sigh is impatient, because more than anything, he wants to get this over with. "Cause I know you've been waiting to find out what happened and this…this'll help explain things."

Sam takes a breath and studies him, and Dean almost buckles under the weight of his little brother's gaze. Eyes that young shouldn't look so aged, shouldn't carry so much weight. Shouldn't see into parts of him that no one else even knows exist.

It makes Dean shift, uncomfortable. "Just read it already."

Sam looks down, reads aloud from a newspaper clipping taped to an empty page: "Man pleads not guilty to murder-for-hire charge. New Orleans, LA - A Jefferson Parish man has pleaded not guilty in federal court to running a murder-for-hire business in the... Murder-for-hire business? Are you kidding me?"

Dean shakes his head as his brother all but chokes on the question. "Oh keep readin'. It gets better."

"Court records show that 35-year-old Stanley P. Vallis pleaded not guilty Wednesday to operating and managing an underground murder-for-hire ring. Numerous other charges, including several counts of arson, possessing and distributing illegal firearms, carrying an illegal firearm during and in relation to a crime of violence, and several counts of drug trafficking, were also included.

"Prosecutors say Vallis's downfall occurred when he attempted to hire someone last fall, but the would-be hit man was working with law enforcement and recorded the conversations.

"Vallis faces a possible life sentence for the horrific tally of 10 murders attributed to his 'business', which began with that of William Galleon, his wife Lucy and their three children, who were killed in their homes in October of 1994."

Sam glances up, and Dean can tell his brother's connecting the dots.

"Yep," Dean nods his affirmation back at him, and then swipes the Jell-O from Sam's food tray before continuing. "Just call me Mr. Would-Be Hit Man."

"So how did you…?"

Dean works at peeling back the foil on the Jell-O container; it keeps him from fidgeting. "It's a long story bro," he says, and scoops a blob of it out before shoveling it into his mouth. "After you left, Dad and I, well, we hunted on and off together for a while. Well, more like he'd give me jobs and then tell me to meet back up with him in a week. Ew, God, have you tasted this stuff?" He sits the container back down and eyes it like it might start moving on its own.

Which, knowing their luck, it just might.

"Anyway, there'd been this strange string of deaths in the New Orleans area. People dying in house fires, locked in their closets, but no sign of break in, struggle, anything. A house would burn, an entire family would be wiped out in one night.

"So dad and I look into it, thinking it's a fire imp or an ifrit or something. Sure as hell looked like it. You should'a seen the bodies, man. Their fingers were the worst, scoured to the bone trying to claw their way out. We were in town for almost a month trying to pin it down…"

Sam's nodding, quick on the uptake. After all, it isn't an uncommon occurrence, following a lead that ends up being totally un-supernatural related. Usually when that happened, though, they left the dirty work to the cops and moved on. "So the job was a bust."

"Not entirely. Cops were stumped but you know dad. The man's like a bloodhound. We tracked the murders to this lunatic badass and his merry little bad of thugs in a bar outside New Orleans. A bar we'd been going to almost every night, I might add. Turns out I played pool with the psycho every weekend, shared a freakin' beer with him…"

"Wait. Dean." Sam screws up his face. "So you knew these guys…?"

"Dude, I'm getting there."

"Sorry."

"So," Dean pauses, grabs the dinner roll from Sam's hand, and brushes off his brother's rebuff by taking a bite, "me and dad had been going there just about every night and I'd gotten to know pretty much all the regulars within a week. V' was cool at first. Even hooked me up with this rockin' hot chick…"

Sam snorts. "Dean…"

He hands the roll back to Sam. "Sorry. Anyway, Debbie. She owned the bar that fronted for 'V. You met her at our hotel when you checked us in, before…" The memory of the ravaged, empty room makes Dean pause, his throat tight. "Well, you met her, and I guess she recognized me and tattled."

Sam nods, but respectfully remains quiet, even as Dean tells him just how close he unwittingly got. How he'd sat 'til the early hours of the morning in an empty bar just shooting the breeze, just he, Vallis, Tex, Shrivey, and sometimes Foz, feeling normal for once, like one of the guys; how Debs and Maggi had sweet-talked him into singing karaoke one night after a little too much tequila; how Shriv had made fun of his mid-western accent; how Foz had always been a little butt-kisser; and how Tex had never really liked him after he killed him three nights in a row at pool.

"A few weeks of this and 'V pulls me aside. I guess he saw something in me he liked and wanted me to sign up." Dean sighs, almost embarrassed by this revelation. "By then me 'n dad already figured it out and dad had skipped town. I was gonna go with him but…it just didn't feel right, ya know? So I put a call in to the cops – and sort of agreed to go undercover to help…"

"Undercover?"

"Well, maybe undercover's too strong of a word…"

"What happened to anonymous tips? Dean, the guy killed people…"

"Take it easy, Sam. Seriously dude, all I had to do was go back to 'V and say 'yes'. The cops did the rest."

Sam's giving him the look, the one that says you're-not-telling-me-everything-you-jerk. "Uh huh. Cops don't just let civvies walk into hostile situations like that."

"Well, I did tell them I had military training…" Dean hedges.

"You what?"

"It wasn't a lie. Not really. Either way, the cops really didn't have much of a choice. Apparently they'd been trying to pin V's gang down for while and he hadn't taken a liking to any of the guys they sent in. I had the door, I had the key, and I had the training. But dude," he stops, surprising Sam by leaning back in his chair and giving him his most puckish smile. "It was awesome. Just like the movies. They wired me up, gave me a bullet-proof vest, one of those little invisible ear-pieces…I felt like James Bond."

"Okay, so…then what?

"Then, the next day, V's racket gets raided and all his little playmates get arrested."

"And that's it? End of story?"

"Pretty much. I didn't stick around after that. Just moved on to the next job. I never thought…"

There isn't much to say after that.

The silence that follows is awkward and heavy, so when Sam simply says, "Yeah," it throws Dean off.

"Yeah?" Dean peers at him, incredulous. "Seriously, all you have to say is 'yeah'?"

Sam shrugs, trying hard - but not quite managing - to hide the wince when he does so. "What were you expecting me to say?"

"I don't know. Not 'yeah'."

"Why?"

"Because you almost got killed because of me, Sam."

"No, I'm alive because of you."

"Weren't you just listening?"

"Yeah, heard every word."

Dean clenches his jaw in frustration. "Then you know that all this was my fault."

Dean's blaming himself, the stupid jerk. Sam wants to feign weakness just to get him to come closer so he can knock him upside the head.

It's nice to fully understand now, to not just rely on the breadcrumbs thrown his way. But with Dean, it's one thing to understand, another entirely to try and convince him otherwise.

Because his brother isn't at all hard headed.

Sam sighs, forcing his own frustration to subside, and stares down at his wrists. Raw wrists, chafed to muscle and itching with healing. Healing because of his brother.

He wants to yell, to pound it into Dean's head, but yelling or trying to beat it into him isn't going to help, however tempting it may be.

"Dean, man…" he says instead, letting his eyes linger on the bandages so that Dean's eyes will find the same place. "It wasn't your fault."

"Oh jeez, Sammy, don't start." Dean's reply is automatic, and more clipped then he probably means it to be. There's a humorless chuckle and his brother surges to his feet, moving to the open window and turning his back on him.

Sam isn't affected at all by this. It's the standard Dean-Winchester-defense-mechanism: Ignore it and it will just go away. But Sam's had 22 years of practice in all things Dean Winchester, and he maneuvers around it with caution. "Dean. I mean it."

Dean doesn't turn. "You know, I already got this lecture from Jim."

"And apparently you didn't listen then, either."

That does it. Dean spins, reeling on him. "I don't get you two. I mean, how's it not my fault? I heard you in there, Sam. I was there. You were protecting me. They wanted to know where I was and they were beating the crap out of you to get you to spill it."

Sam lifts his chin in an obvious display of little-brother defiance. "So what if I was? I wasn't about to give you up. You're my brother. Besides," he lowers his voice, allowing his face to soften. He knows meeting his brother's frustration with more frustration will only drive him over the edge. He's got to make him see, got to put it into words that Dean will identify with, and there's only one thing that Dean won't dispute. He meets his brother's eyes, knowing Dean won't look away again, and says, "I knew you'd come get me."

Dean blinks, looking as uncomfortable as Sam's sure he feels, but he doesn't argue, and that gives Sam confidence to continue.

"I'm not a kid anymore that needs looking after, man."

"No, you're a big pain-in-the-ass that needs looking after." It's said without mirth, but in the breezy fashion his brother often adopts when struggling to find a foothold.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But you're right. Maybe if I hadn't let my guard down then…"

Dean cuts him off with a sharp gesture. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, just stop right there. Don't you even try that crap with me."

"I'm serious, Dean. If I'd have been paying more attention those guys wouldn't have got the drop on me."

"They were human, Sam. In our line of work, we tend to forget that they're out there to get us, too."

"My point is…we're both to blame here. Not just you. Not just me. So what's it gonna to take to get you…?"

"All right, all right!" Dean says, throwing his hands up. After a moment he leans forward, elbows resting wearily on the rails of the bed, and scrubs a hand over her face. "I get what you're saying. I do. It's just…I can't…I need…"

This is Dean off balance, fumbling for how to put his thoughts into words. But Sam can sense the underlying message, even if Dean himself can't.

"For what it's worth, I forgive you, Dean."

And just like that, his brother deflates, those familiar and haunted green eyes filling with unspoken grief and love and intense gratitude before he lowers his head to sit and wait it out.

It's not very Winchester-like, and Sam's sure that both of them will pretend it never happened later, but the sudden need to see his brother's face is almost suffocating. Sam ducks down, touches his forehead to Dean's.

It isn't really a surprise when Dean leans against him. Neither is the calloused hand that slowly lifts to rest on the back of Sam's neck, locking them together.

No more words are said.

There's no need.