Hi, everyone! Thanks for coming back and reading the next part. I know that I said the story was going to be three chapters, and that's still mostly true, but I've split this last chapter into two parts, or else it would have been pretty long. I also intended to post both parts at once, but I decided to go ahead and post this part since my beta rocks super hard and she did such an awesome job of going through this and returning it back to me right away. Thanks so much, graceofgod!

If you have the time, please do tell me what you think. Thanks to everyone out there who has alerted, added me as a favorite, and commented. I feel incredibly lucky that there are people who are enjoying reading this. Floored, actually.

Hope you like.

Disclaimer: If I owned any part of Supernatural, I'm pretty sure I'd know. In which case, you'd know.

Now.

The next week is a long one: Dean is as sick as Cas has ever seen him, completely out of it, and so he bunks in the hunter's cabin to take care of him. He also takes on Dean's duties and does the morning report-in as well as the rounds. Dean usually sleeps the entire time Cas is gone, worn down from the night's hallucinations. Cas is likewise exhausted – he only sleeps in the spare moments when Dean is quiet and resting, no longer muttering. Otherwise, he tries to keep on eye on his friend, keep him hydrated, comfortable. Tries not to listen when Dean talks to Sam.

He doesn't tell the hunter that his brother is gone. It wouldn't matter.

Although Cas and Luke are quiet about it, before long word spreads that Dean is out of commission. There is a stir of concern, but underneath that remains a note of unease. It's unlike Dean to not be up and about, no matter how poorly he may be feeling. The immediate, unspoken fear that ripples through people is that this could be the beginning of an outbreak. A strange, hesitant silence blankets the camp, people working and going about their business furtively, as though it's expected that more will be felled by disease at any given moment.

"Can't you give him some antibiotics or something?"

Cas helps Dean through another round of retching, supporting him and preventing him from falling off the bed as he vomits into the bucket.

Luke shakes his head. "If it were bacterial, yeah. But that's not the case." He exhales slowly, cheeks puffing out. "I'd feel better if we took him and put him in the medical cabin." Cas steadfastly refuses, shakes his head.

"He'd lose his privacy – it's not what Dean would want."

"I don't think he's in any position to tell us what he wants. He hasn't made sense in hours."

"That's what I'm here for." Cas turns away, back to Dean, and Luke doesn't push it.

It starts out different, but it ends the same.

Sam is sitting on a bench in the schoolyard by himself. It must be recess, because all around him kids are running around, shouting and laughing. Sam is not himself, or at least, not Sam now. He's maybe eleven years old. He's wearing that jean jacket he loved as a kid, and his wrists are just starting to poke out of the sleeves. Dean remembers it well.

His little brother doesn't react in the slightest when Dean sits down next to him, like Sam knew he'd been behind him the whole time. Instead, he pushes away the hair the wind has blown into his eyes in a perfectly childlike gesture.

"Hey," is all Sam says.

Dean almost can't take it. His heart stutters and leaps up into his throat, and he feels himself choke a little. His eyes sting with emotion and he blinks rapidly, clearing his vision. He's not sure if he's laughing or shuddering.

"Hey, yourself," he answers shakily, swiping at his eyes surreptitiously. He smiles even though his heart is absolutely breaking. "It's really good to see you, Sammy." He can't keep the tremor out of his voice.

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam sounds sulky, bored. "I just saw you this morning. We had breakfast, remember?" He gives Dean a look before he turns his attention back to staring morosely, watching kids being kids.

"Right," Dean quickly agrees. He clears his throat, gets himself under control. "Breakfast. So, uh, you got any geek friends around or what?" He gestures out at the schoolyard. There are tons of kids that look around Sam's age.

Sam glowers darkly. "Doesn't matter," he mutters. "We're leaving when we get back from school today, anyway."

Dean bobs his head, swallowing thickly. He knows this argument, knows it well. He falls into its pattern without batting an eyelash.

"Sam, this school sucks, anyway," he elbows his little brother gently. "Don'tcha think? And you know we have to go; it's important. So don't be too mad at Dad, okay?"

Sam shrugs, scuffs the toe of his sneaker on the gravel underfoot. "I know it's important," he responds. "I'm not dumb. I just don't see why it always has to be Dad. Can't someone else do it?"

"Come on, Sam. How many kids can say they have a hero for a father?"

Sam raises sad, bottomless eyes and looks at Dean.

"He's always leaving, Dean," the youngest Winchester protests. "Leaving us behind, for as long as I can remember. It's not normal," he insists, crossing his arms and hugging himself. "It's not right. And you're too young to be looking after us."

"Hey," Dean cuts in, offended. "I think I did okay, didn't I?"

"What do you mean, 'did?'" Sam queries. "You still do okay. You do great. Better than Dad." His voice suddenly becomes empty, sorrowful.

"But you'll leave me, too."

Dean turns his head to his brother, mouth open to object. It's then that he realizes it's suddenly gone dead quiet around him, which is unusual, considering he's in a schoolyard. He looks around and sees that there suddenly isn't a kid to be seen anymore. It's just himself and Sam, and a rusty playground. The grass is gone, leaving parched earth and gaping fissures. The colors of the sky have faded into smoky grey, and ash chokes everything. Dean looks over his shoulder. There is no school anymore, just rubble and soot. He puts his hand on Sam's shoulder protectively.

"Sam-" Dean says urgently, and Sam lifts his head. Lifts his black eyes to stare right at the older Winchester. When Sam opens his mouth, it's not his child's voice that comes out, but the voice of Sam as an adult.

As Dean last heard him.

"Dean, don't do this."

He's not sure if the scream in his ears is his own.

It's the middle of the night, and Cas is dozing in his chair when Dean comes awake with a violent cry. The angel jerks upright, eyes flying open and meets the hunter's wild gaze. Dean thrashes inarticulately, weak and clumsy, and Cas moves to restrain him as carefully as he can. His left cheekbone still smarts from the last round of delirium when he caught a glancing blow from a flailing fist.

"Just take it easy, Dean," he says as he takes the hunter by the elbow. His skin is still blazing hot, and his face is flushed with fever, eyes glassy.

"Cas," he mumbles, recognition in his voice, licks his lips. Cas gives Dean a drink of water, guiding the glass to his mouth and holding it there while he swallows. The hunter gulps thirstily, then starts to cough and choke. Cas sets the glass aside and hurriedly leans him forward until he's got his breath back. "What…How long -?"

Cas gently pushes Dean back until he's lying flat on his back again. "Awhile," he admits to the hunter. "Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

Dean blinks up at the ceiling, dazed. Then he's suddenly rolling to the side without warning, clutching the edge of his cot and heaving into the bucket. He brings up all the water, and Cas feels something give deep in the pit of his stomach. Something more serious than simple concern begins to snake through his belly as he watches Dean retch. The hunter is losing more fluid than he can take in.

When he's done, Dean presses his forehead into the mattress, shivering.

"Again," he mutters to himself.

Cas leans forward, uncertain. "You're going to be sick again?"

Dean flops onto his back, weakly throws his arm over his eyes. "No," he answers in a hoarse voice. "Well, yeah, but not what I mean."

Cas takes Dean's pulse, rests the back of his hand on the hunter's forehead briefly. "Sit up," he tells Dean, tugging him up as gently as he can. Dean is oddly compliant, only groans faintly in response to being moved. "You need to drink more water and you need to keep it down this time. You're getting dehydrated." He feels bad about keeping Dean awake when he so clearly wants nothing more than to be left alone. He softens his voice, changes the subject. "What did you mean?"

"Huh?"

"You said you didn't mean 'again,' as in throwing up again. So what did you mean?"

Dean looks at Cas blankly for a moment, and Cas knows the hunter is deciding whether or not to tell him. Then he slouches and sighs, obviously too tired to care much.

"In my dreams," Dean says, sounding weary and resigned. "It always ends the same." He stops, rubs his face. When he drops his hand and looks back at Cas, the former angel can see nothing in his eyes but irreconcilable guilt. "I hear the last thing Sam ever said to me."

Judging by how Dean's hand shakes as he accepts the glass of water, Cas is willing to bet that whatever these last words are, it's not a happy memory. Dean manages a few swallows of water before grimacing and handing the glass back. He lies back down and turns away to face the wall, closes his eyes. His breathing slowly evens out and the seconds begin to stretch. Then he snorts, chuckling.

Cas looks up. He's reading Steinbeck again. "What's so funny?" he asks.

"Nothing, really," Dean says, lucid but more asleep than awake. "Jus' thinking. The shit you say, y'know?"

"What do you mean?"

Dean yawns, fading. "I mean, you don't think to yourself, 'this is the last thing I'm ever gonna say to you.'"

Cas knows without question that Dean's talking about Sam. He can see the hunter shivering, so he gets up and grabs another blanket from the corner and throws it over him. "What was it? The last thing you said?"

Dean shifts slightly, relaxing under the added warmth of the blanket. "I told him goodbye." There's a pause, and for a second Cas thinks he's dropped off into slumber until he speaks again.

"But I didn't mean it."

Then.

It's his favorite routine, and it comforts him to this day.

Dean's in the large cabin used for general assemblies and other meetings, taking advantage of the wide tables. His entire gun collection is disassembled and neatly splayed out before him. This is about as Zen as he gets.

His dad taught him how to clean firearms when he was seven, and it's as regular as breathing for him now. Dean can still hear his father's low rumble over his shoulder, encouraging him. He can almost smell his aftershave. He remembers how tall and reassuring John's presence was as his calloused hands steered Dean's clumsy, inexperienced fingers through the motions.

First, son, you take it apart. Like this. Remember these parts: the frame, slide, barrel, and the guide rod and recoil spring. Next, you wipe them down with this cloth until the cloth comes out clean. Okay, good. Now, apply the solvent and let it soak before you scrub. Good work, Dean.

Dean picks up the bore brush, lost in the memory, and begins running it through the barrel. It's almost enough to keep him distracted.

Don't think about Sam, he tells himself. Just, don't.

It's not like he could call Sam, anyway. There's no cell reception out here, and they don't exactly keep a Batphone for emergencies. Even if he could call his brother, he doesn't know what to say. He can still hear Sam's voice on the phone, pleading to him in their last conversation.

Look, Dean. I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you.

Above all, he remembers saying the hardest words he's ever had to say to his little brother. Words he never thought he could ever utter in his waking life.

Bye, Sam.

He feels like a joke for trying to pretend otherwise, but he hasn't been able to put Sam away in his mind. He can't stop thinking about his brother: what he's doing, if he's safe and well, if he's getting closer to Lucifer. Of course, thinking about Lucifer isn't far off from thinking about Michael, and Dean feels his head begin to reel. It's the same song and dance he goes through approximately every moment of the day. The burden, the guilt, responsibilities, questions. The endless litany of self-doubt, blame. It's all here, in his head, his and his alone. It's enough to make a man go insane.

Dean puts down the bore brush, picks up his rag again. He steadies himself with the calming routine in front of him, his weapons cleaning. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales out his nose, grounding himself.

Outside, he hears the muffled sound of voices, slowly becoming louder as they approach. A moment later the door is opening and Marcus is stepping through, Gerald behind him. Dean only needs to glance at their faces to know that bad news is about to break. He puts everything down and stands, mildly alarmed.

"What is it?" he asks. "What's going on?"

Marcus looks at Dean's project on the table. When he meets the hunter's eyes, he's smiling in a way Dean's never seen before.

"It looks like we are going to have our mettle tested," he tells Dean in a perfectly steady voice. "We're expecting visitors."

Dean's heart quickens, adrenaline already starting to respond. "Croats? You mean, an attack?" he asks, mouth slightly dry. "How many?" he demands, seeing the affirmative nod.

Marcus runs a hand over his beard a moment before answering. "Gerald counted about thirty from as close as he could get. There could be more by the time they get here."

"Which is when?"

Marcus looks to Gerald, who spreads his hands. "If they keep heading here at the pace they've been going at? I'd say by tomorrow evening sometime."

Dean nods, considering. "Okay. That gives us time."

"Time to what, Dean?" There's something the way Marcus asks it that makes Dean wary.

The hunter frowns. "To get the women and children out of here."

A moment of tense silence passes, and Gerald takes a small step away, rubbing the back of his neck. Marcus smiles sadly, moves in a little closer with eyes full of patience. His tone is coaxing. "Dean," he says softly. "Where could we move them? Where would they be safe?"

Dean struggles to answer, hesitating. Marcus lays his hand on the hunter's shoulder firmly. "I don't like saying it any more than you do hearing it. But this is the world we live in now. There's nowhere for them to go." His face hardens slightly and he sets his jaw; the hand on Dean's shoulder squeezes.

"Which is why we're going to meet these things halfway and kill them before they get to the gates."

The news spreads quickly, and the camp is transformed into a centre of activity within minutes of Dean leaving the cabin with Marcus and Gerald.

"I want you to round up all the usuals," Marcus tells the hunter as they walk. "We meet back in an hour and start getting a hunting party together. We need weapons."

"Dean!"

Dean spins at the sound of his name, finds Bobby wheeling up to him along the path. The grizzled hunter's face is pale and drawn.

"Bobby?"

A cold knot of dread settles into Dean's stomach, twisting his gut. There is a look in Bobby's eye that shakes the hunter to the core. He suddenly doesn't want to hear what the older man has to say, doesn't want to know what has his hands shaking like he has palsy.

"Dean," Bobby says, "I think you better come with me. There's something you need to see." He pauses, eyes flicking to Marcus briefly before looking back to Dean, stricken. "I think it's best if you came alone."

The ground feels as though it's caving under Dean's feet, and he feels the pit of his stomach and his heart simultaneously drop away with it. His sight momentarily dims into a narrow corridor of vision; all he can see is Bobby's grieving face.

Dean knows he's not ready to deal with this. He's not. He wants to tell Bobby this, even opens his mouth to do so. But all he can think about is Sam.

"Okay," is all he can say instead. He steps behind Bobby's wheelchair and wraps his unsteady hands around the handles. "Let's go."

They pause in front of Castiel's cabin doorstep.

Bobby rubs a hand over his mouth. "Are you sure want Marcus to come in with us?" he asks. "This is going to get personal." The grizzled hunter glances at the man in question. "Sorry," he tells Marcus. "No offense meant."

Marcus shakes his head. "None taken, Bobby." He looks to Dean. "I really don't need to be here for this, Dean. This is a private matter, and I understand. I trust you will tell me if it's anything I need to know."

Dean smiles sadly, regretfully. "It's about my brother," he says with calm certainty. "And that means it can only be about one thing. So if this is the beginning of the end of the world I'm going to say it's safe to assume it's a need to know. And you may as well hear it straight from the horse's mouth." He senses Bobby tensing, but he doesn't ask which nerve he's struck.

He finds out when he pushes the door open. "Well, I sure as hell wasn't expecting this."

Cas is standing in the middle of the cabin, but he isn't alone. A man sits before him, bound hand and foot to the chair he's sitting on. He's sitting in the middle of a devil's trap, etched in chalk on the floor, regarding Dean and Bobby with a baleful sneer.

"Look who it is," he spits. "Dean Winchester. I thought this place reeked of trash." He blinks, and his eyes turn black.

Dean turns to Marcus, his face cold and unreadable.

"Deadbolt the door behind you," he says in a deadly voice.

The demon laughs, relaxing into its restraints casually. "What? You going to torture me? You, the failed disciple of Alastair?" It licks its lips in anticipation. "Oh, this'll be good," it says eagerly.

Dean crosses the space between he and the demon in two strides and strikes it across the face, snapping its head to the side with the force of the blow.

"Shut up," the hunter growls. "Cas, where did he come from?"

"He walked right up to the gate," the angel answers, voice low. "He said he would only speak to you." His eyes slide down to the demon with distaste. "Of course," he adds, "that wasn't until after he broke Germaine's arm."

Dean nods, but he doesn't take his eyes off the demon, which grins back at him and gnashes its teeth. Dean returns the stare levelly, without a twitch of emotion. The silence that drags on is interminable. When the hunter finally speaks, his voice is sharp as a blade.

"Who else has seen him?"

"Just Colin and Gerald," Bobby answers.

Dean leans down close to the demon. "What are you doing here?" he hisses. "What the hell do you want?"

The demon smiles, amused. "Oh, nothing much," it says. "Just checking out the neighborhood." It casts around the cabin vaguely before fixing Dean with a cold glare. "I didn't find much of interest."

Dean snorts. "Whatever you say. Got any final words before I send you back downstairs, you son of a bitch?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." The hunter doesn't even blink before he launches into it. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanic potestas, omnis –"

The demon's cry is a sharp note that pierces the incantation. "Enough! Wait!" Dean falls silent and the demon struggles faintly in its bindings. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"I already asked you once," Dean replies in a chilly voice. "Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii –"

"Wait, damn you! Wait!" The demon throws its head back, straining to stay inside its body. When the hunter doesn't resume the chant it looks back up, panting.

"You can send me back," it says vehemently. "Doesn't much matter, the rate things are going. I'll be back up before long. But I came to give you a message before you do."

"A message from who?" Dean demands.

"Who do you think?" the demon hisses, eyes narrowing.

"Don't listen to him, Dean," Bobby says. "Demons lie. Demons are full of shit."

"Yes," the demon snaps. "I came here to a place that is crawling with hunters –after many great pains of tracking you down, I might add- to pull your leg and regale you with a delightful story or two. Did I mention I came alone? Alone and unarmed?"

"You did a pretty good job of mangling Germaine's arm, even so," Cas points out.

The demon frowns up at the angel. "Self defense," it simply says.

"Whatever the hell you wanna call it," Dean cuts in. "I'm not in the mood for bullshit. So this can be quick and easy or Hell on Earth before I send you back to the real thing. The very next words that come out of your mouth are going to decide which one it's gonna be."

The demon answers Dean smoothly and with a sneer, unblinking.

"Lucifer wants you to know that your brother is close to finding him. It's going to happen, Dean. And it's going to happen in Detroit. Soon."

Dean's face doesn't waver, doesn't change its expression as he moves away and begins pacing. "And he wants me to know this because?"

"Because he wants you to come down to Detroit and meet up with Sam."

Dean laughs bitterly and stops pacing. "That so?" he challenges. "And just why exactly would he want me to do that?"

The demon shrugs. "Because," it answers without concern, "it's not going to change anything, and Lucifer wants you there to prove it to you. So you can see for yourself." The demon's grin gets wider. "Even if you do go to Detroit, Dean, it won't matter. Sam will say yes to Lucifer, but you'll keep pussying out as usual. You'll never say yes to Michael, and that will be the end of that."

Dean shuts the demon up with a gag soaked in holy water as he finishes the exorcism.

Cas gives Dean a ten-minute head start to let him cool off, on Bobby's insistence. He follows Bobby's lead, waits it out with the aged hunter before following Dean to his cabin.

Cas isn't sure what he expected to find, but it's not the calm, collected hunter that he encounters. Dean has his back turned to the angel and Bobby, doesn't even so much as acknowledge them in the slightest as they enter the cabin. His head is bowed and he's got his weapons duffel out.

"Going on a road trip?" Bobby asks dryly.

"Something like," Dean answers, rolling up his knife collection. He checks a couple of handguns over briefly before adding them to the bundle, and Cas can see that he's got some rifles and other heavy artillery already stowed and ready to go in the duffel. "Marcus has it covered here. He's got a large enough hunting party together to go after the Croats."

He turns and strides out of his cabin, weapons duffel flung over his shoulder. "Tell Marcus I'm taking one of the trucks," he tells Bobby and Cas as he passes. "If I go now, I can get to Detroit by the morning."

Cas follows after Dean, leaving Bobby behind in the effort to keep up. "Then I'm coming with you."

Dean doesn't look over at Cas as he responds. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, expression stony. "No, you're staying here. You're going on that hunt with Marcus and the others. You may have to play the angel card and save the day with your mojo somehow."

"Dean, this is insanity. You can't insist on going alone-"

Dean stops in his tracks and faces Cas, cutting off the angel's protests with the look in his eyes before he even opens his mouth.

"Cas, there's a better-than-excellent chance that I'm not coming back from this. You need to stay here, keep everyone safe in case that's exactly what happens. In case-"

There's a brief moment where Dean looks like he's going to say something else, but then thinks better of it. He turns and walks away again and leaves the sentence hanging in the air.

Dean makes it ten steps before there's the sound of sudden commotion. Someone is screaming shrilly, panicked. Cas should have known that it would be enough to turn Dean around again and set him running back in the direction he came from, towards the source. Once again, the angel is following after Dean.

The screaming is coming from Maria, a widow who lives with her son, Joshua. She's standing with a group of other women who are doing their best to console her. Marcus is there. "Joshua," Maria keeps moaning, and she clutches at Marcus's sleeve. "Please, it might not be too late," she begs. "There could still be time."

"What's going on?" Dean asks, coming to a halt. Marcus turns serious eyes to the hunter.

"Joshua is," Marcus says and stops, running a hand across his mouth before he tries again. "Joshua went out this morning to hunt deer." He pauses again, sighs. "He went in the direction that we're headed in."

"You mean, he's headed in the direction of the Croats and he doesn't even know it?"

Marcus doesn't need to say anything. Maria dissolves into tears.

"How long until the hunting party is ready to go?" Dean asks, clenching his fists.

Damn it. Goddammit.

"Not soon enough," Marcus answers, voice heavy with meaning.

"Please," Maria begs again. "It's not too late." She looks to Dean. "My son," she cries. "He's only twenty six years old."

Dean feels his heart sinking. He knows he can't leave like this. He can't leave a mother to grieve for her son, not when he could have done something. He looks to Marcus, and Marcus is already nodding.

"We'd better get going right now," is all Dean can get out around the rock in his throat, in his heart.

Now.

"Cas?"

It's the first time Dean has said his name in days and sounded so clear. Cas crosses the room in moments and takes a knee beside the bed. The hunter is blinking at him, brow furrowed. "What time 's it?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"More like, what day is it?" Cas tries for levity, can't stop the goofy grin of relief from spreading across his face. "It's early. Or late. However you want to look at it. How are you feeling?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he's pushing the back of his hand against the hunter's forehead. Dean grunts and tosses his head, but it's a feeble effort.

"You've been very ill," Cas tells Dean seriously. "Do you realize that this is the eighth day since I walked in here and found you?"

"Lucky you," Dean grumbles as he pushes himself into a sitting position on the cot. He holds his head in his hands as he speaks. "Always the one to walk in and find the person. Getting to be a nasty habit, that."

Cas stiffens. He can't help it, but he flinches and glances away, suddenly uncomfortable. Dean notices and looks up, and by his expression it's clear that he's realized what he's just said. Shame crosses his face and he drops his eyes, looking away before speaking.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean hastily says, paling. "That wasn't fair of me." He clears his throat awkwardly, and Cas knows that the hunter is also thinking of Bobby at that moment. "Thank you. For…everything. Looking after my ass. I'm sorry to have caused any trouble."

"You should be sorry, Dean," Cas tells him gravely. "You made me cancel three clinics. And I've been told the Rondell twins want to come and join the sessions, too."

Dean chuckles wryly and shakes his head slowly, still rubbing his eyes. "Let me know if you ever find out which one's Carmen and which is Marcie. I never did get it straight." His voice is rusty with disuse, and Cas hands him a glass of water. Dean takes it with slightly trembling hands and drinks.

Cas sits back in his chair again and relaxes. Dean feels cooler, and he hasn't thrown up in nearly thirty hours, not since Cas came back from a short errand and found the hunter completely soaked through with sweat and sleeping more soundly than he had in days.

"I think you've turned a corner," he tells Dean. "But I have news that's going to make you feel even better."

Dean quirks a weary but amused eyebrow.

"Marissa started getting better a week ago," Cas says, smiling. "The antibiotics are working. She's still weak, but she walked outside the cabin for the first time today since the dog attack." He leans forward. "She's not going to lose her arm." Of course, the girl is going to have horrific facial scars for the rest of her life, but Cas knows that Dean is already well aware of the sad fact. Dead may be better than undead, but best of all is being alive, especially when it's a child so young.

Dean's face brightens, and he turns to Cas, interested and hopeful.

"She is? You're sure?"

Cas smiles softly, relieved at seeing Dean so alert and nearly normal. "Unless she was faking it when I stopped by and saw her yesterday. I thought she was going to keep talking until my ear fell off."

Dean lays back at Cas's words. "That's good," he murmurs, tries unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. "That's really good." He's obviously still feeling weak and tired, but it's apparent to Cas that the hunter really is on the road to recovery.

Cas leans back further in his chair, picks up his book but doesn't open it, just keeps it in his lap.

"Yeah, Dean, it is," he agrees.

He watches as Dean's eyes begin to close, pleased.

End of Part One

A/N: The second part of the last chapter to come soon! Hope to see you again!