WARNING: Sam is not in this chapter.

"Hey."

"No." turn. Turn and slam the door. Slam the door and hide. Hide and forget you ever opened the door.

"Been awhile,"

"Mmmmm," never would not be long enough.

"Good to see you," he paused, quirked an eyebrow, waited.

"Hmmmmm." run, run now, run far, run fast, just run.

"Kinda warm out here." he hinted, quirked the second eyebrow and waited.

"MmmmHmmmmm." go away.

"Just, uh, driving by, you know?" he waggled his usually irresistible eyebrows and waited.

"MmmmHmmm!" and just how the bloody hell did you know where I lived?

"Can I come in?" lowered lids and bitten bottom lip had never failed him before.

"MEEP?!" not on your life.

He grinned; a sheepish, cocky smile meant to be disarming faltered into a wince and he swayed left, then right, then left before bracing his weight with an arm on either side of the exterior door frame.

Maggie felt faint and for once, she couldn't blame it on age or any of her many medications. No, the reason was right there, standing in her doorway. A man she'd hoped to never see again; a man, who once again, had found his way into her life. Huh, and just how had he done that?

Humph!

Speaking of medication, she wondered if she had enough Ativan and Diazepam and Lorazepam in the cupboard to get through another visit from one dark and dangerous Mr. Dean Winchester. No, she decided, no she did not. Not nearly enough. What time was it? Could she call for a refill? Would the doctor authorize it over the phone? She didn't have time to make an appointment. She couldn't wait. She needed valium and whiskey….did they still make laudanum? Made from opium, wasn't it?

"…and hot." he finished. Oh-oh, she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

Resolving at that moment, to change both phone numbers, steal someone's identity and move to a remote island off the coast of say, Antarctica, she finally moved aside to allow him entrance into her home. A place she had never thought he would enter.

"Well?" she waved her hand through the open door. "You're letting all my a/c out." sure, sure, she could let him in through the front door and let herself right out the back door. Hop into her car and drive….no destination necessary, just drive. Run, runaway. Run, run as fast as you can, he can't catch you...

"Aah, right, yeah." still, he didn't move.

"What is it this time?" she crossed her arms over her chest, for the moment oblivious to the sting of the above average temperatures for 8:30 in the morning in remote South Dakota. "Stabbed again? Concussed?" she questioned disdainfully. I'm going to have to tend you, aren't I? "What are you doing here?" she paused. "How did you even know where I lived?" yeah, how had he found her house? "You'd just best be on your way. I'm not taking care of you again." pfft, who are you kidding Margaret, you know damned well you will. "Not this time." this time and every time hereafter. And there would be more times.

"Eh?" he was light-headed and nauseated and nothing she was saying was making any sense. Must be the heat. Yeah, the heat. Sure, that was it. Couldn't be anything else, right? "What?"

"Just dropping by for a nip of tea?" she carried on. "Friendly visit, I'm sure." I'm going to die. He'll be the death of me yet. I'm going to cock up my toes and die of fright or stress or violence, for it's for damn sure I won't live long enough to die of old age when HE keeps invading my life!

Translation: she said one thing and meant the complete opposite.

"Uh, say what?"

"Or maybe you're shot." she continued sarcastically. "That'd be a new one." she paused. "For me anyway. But not you, I bet." she frowned, her face skewering into a disapproving scowl. "I've seen you, you know. I've seen the scars. You certainly aren't bashful about running around wearing only your unmentionables in front of me. Or do you do that with all the women you know? What about Jody? She still insists you're a law official, but I know better. Law official, my ass! You're a criminal and I know it. You'll not tell me different! What I don't know, is why she's so fond of you…..I mean, she's downright protective and I just don't get it. You can do no wrong! And why is that? Why you? Now, I love that woman like a daughter but for the life of me I don't understand how she just lets you run amuck with all those guns and weapons! You're a dangerous man. Dangerous I say!" she snapped her fingers in triumph over some thought that had just occurred to her. "That's it! Blackmail! You're blackmailing her! You've got something over her head. That's it! Or perhaps you saved her life once? Or maybe you've bewitched her, what with those green eyes and those freckles." and that charm and that oozing male….male….well maleness.

"Are you…..saying I…seduced her?" his rough, pain-husky voice rang with astonishment. "Sheriff Mills?!"

Couldn't have said it better myself. "Oh, not at all!" absolutely. "Why, I'm sure Jody wouldn't allow herself to be seduced by you." what sane woman would be able to refuse? Or would want to.

"I…..aah….I, uh…."

"Where's Sam?" she went up on tiptoes to look over his shoulder at the car parked in her driveway. Odd, she ought to have heard the car pull up. Weird, she could see over his shoulder. Oh, that's why, he was all hunched over and supporting his weight against the door frame. Yup! Oh yeah, just driving by, her ass!

"He's in…" Dean began breathlessly.

"You can't leave him in the car." sure you can, just crack a window. "He's alright, isn't he?" I cannot handle both of you in my home! I simply cannot. "I guess no harm can come to him." just, you know, the risk death by heat stroke.

"No…..he's not." Dean swayed some more, biting his lip. "Left him at….a motel…..in….in….." he swallowed hard, panting shallowly. Oh dear, this wasn't good. He couldn't breathe. Oh yeah, nope, not good at all. "He, uh…..his foot and…..the car….." yeah, little old Sammy should try driving with what Dean suspected were cracked ribs. God, he hated friggin' trolls.

Oh no you don't. Nope, not gonna happen. I won't allow it. . . . . I refuse to be swayed by…oh drat, was that sweat on your cheeks? Or tears? Damn you!

"I see." no, I don't! I'm nothing but a crazy old fool. "Very well, come in." shove him back and shut the door in his face. And lock it. Barricade it. Stick to your plan to run out the back. You can run faster than he can. You may be old and arthritic, but he's all hunched over, he's in pain and he can't breathe. "You can rest for an hour or two before being on your way." I'm talking complete and utter bullshit. He'll stay as long as he needs to. In fact I insist he does, but I'll never tell him that.

He managed to stagger through the door and while she was closing it behind him – muttering about beloved daughter-in-laws – headed for the deceptive beacon of comfort; the sofa. Deceptive because it was evil, for despite his best efforts, it eluded him. He couldn't reach it. Because of the coffee table. That was in his way. And despite his growling and show of dominance, it failed to move. And it wouldn't let him pass. So he decided to show it who was boss and sat on it. And it laughed at him. Then broke beneath his weight. And unable to gain his balance, he was left sprawled on his back amid broken shards of glass and splintered wood.

Maggie stood by the closed front door and threw her hands up. What had possessed her to ever let him in her house!? She stomped her foot in agitation. She knew better!

"You Did Not Just Do That." she fumed. "That was an antique." she stared in dismay at the shattered glass and broken wood. Well, that was going to take some time to clean up. "And you will find and buy me another just like it!" her head decided to throb.

I cannot do this. Not again. I simply cannot. I'm too old. I can't take care of him again. My blood pressure is too high. I'll have a heart attack. I'll pop a blood vessel. I'll throw a stroke. I'll throw my back out. I'll break a hip. I'll dial 911. I'll call Jody. I'll….

I'll put water on for tea and clean sheets on the bed in the guest room.

She sighed. When her last son had left home, she and her husband had downsized to a comfortable rancher that lacked central air conditioning. Because she lived near Rapid City, South Dakota, it was very rare indeed for hot temperatures with high humidity resulting in a heat index with high dew points. So she had two window units; one in her bedroom and one in the dining room that kept her kitchen and living room cool. She kept the other rooms closed off, including the guest room. And that room would be quite warm indeed.

She sighed again. She had a house guest and she sure as hell wasn't giving up her room for his comfort, no matter what ailed him - and something did ail him. She heaved another sigh. Not a house guest, a patient. She may not yet know just what his problem was this time, but she was damn sure he was hurt somewhere. And oooohhhh, she just bet it wasn't anything simple like a broken toe she could just tape together and send him on his way.

Oh well, she shrugged, the situation could be worse. At least this time, he hadn't held a gun on her. Or shot at her. And she wasn't in a flea-bitten, roach-infested motel room that hadn't ever been properly cleaned from which they'd had to flee to avoid the police. And there was only one Winchester...

She frowned. Wasn't there?

"Damn." hugging her arms across her waist to secure her bathrobe, she opened the door and darted outside. Thankful she wore hard soled slippers, and praying the heat would keep her neighbors indoors, she toddled off the porch to peek into the car and confirm that Sam hadn't been left asleep or forgotten. "Oh, thank god!" relief flooded her. With only one Winchester under her roof, perhaps she could get through the day with only alcohol. No drugs required.

Yeah, right! Ha!

She scurried back to the house and shut the door. Whew! No on had seen her! Dean hadn't moved. No, that wasn't accurate. He was exactly where he had fallen but he was rolling and squirming and twitching without actually moving. Huh.

"Stay there. Right there!" she ordered needlessly, because, yeah, he wasn't even trying to get up. "And stop all that rolling and twitching about. You're grounding glass into my hardwood floors."

She wandered down the hall in search of a broom and dust pan. On her way, she opened the door to the guest room to allow cool air to trickle in. She detoured into her room to boot up her ancient desk top with tubed monitor computer, 'cause, yeah, she was going to have some first aid looking up and researching to do. She then headed for the kitchen and put her teapot on. Hot tea was definitely needed. Then she finally opened her cellar door to retrieve broom and dust plan.

"Well. There's a bright side." she decided. "At least I don't have to try and get him upstairs!"

***000***

Oh Good God Almighty He Was Not Comfortable.

Every time he moved or thought about moving, he crunched and his ears clinked. Any part of him currently touching the floor stung or burned from being poked by numerous sharp, pointy objects. OWowowowowowo-wow-owowowowo-OW. What a day to wear only his black t-shirt; the day already too hot for long-sleeves.

He entire body was tense, taut, so stiff his shoulders ached and his thighs cramped from the strain of trying to hold still and relieve the repeated poking's that pierced both his flimsy t-shirt and his tender skin. Every breath he took, every move he made…OW-wow-ow-ow-oh-OW-ow-ow-Wow.

"Shush up, you."

What the hell? What was that? A broom – yes, a broom – whopped him in the face, whisking his cheek and poking his ear.

"Chaos and violence." swish, bristles crossed his other cheek, forehead. "STAY STILL, I SAY!"

He blinked. What the fuck? Where the hell was he? And what the hell was going on? Was he being chased by a….a….a broom!? He was! He swatted at it, it swatted back. He tried to wrestle it down but met resistance. He tried to jerk it loose, but pain flared, erupting and stabbing with such force it stole his breath and left him seeing black dots that swirled and merged slowly into one large circle that completely enveloped his vision and left his ears ringing. His breath fled – again. Seriously, it really needed to quit doing that.

"Stop that! What are you doing? Here now, enough of that! Lay STILL I tell YOU!"

He did.

Not because on any overwhelming desire to obey, but because his chest was tight and it burned and it held his breath hostage. Oh, was it back then? Hey, now his lungs were missing. And without them, his arms and legs didn't know how to move or what to do, so they simply lay where he'd left them; sprawled akimbo amidst broken glass and broken, splintered wood.

Swish swish swish went the broom.

And it was a broom. He didn't need to actually see it to know it was a broom. And brooms meant witches! And no, he didn't want anyone in his face accusing him of profiling or being stereotypical or whatever.

Good god, he was hot! Why couldn't the broom be a wicker fan bringing him nice, much wanted cool air? He was hot! So hot. And in pain. Oh God, the pain! Boy, did he hurt. And…..and…..what was that? That was….was…..was that wood? Wood? Wood? Wood was used for fires. And it was hot, he was hot. Ohohohohohoho….oh! We – he – me gotta get outta this place! You sing it Eric Burdon!

Gulping and panting, tongue held between his teeth, he flailed and flopped, pain and panic blocking out rational thought. He had to roll to his knees, plant his palms on the floor and push up with herculean strength to gain his feet, and even then, he fell back to his elbows three times and once to his hip before actually managing to stand.

Gripped in a frantic frenzy, he failed to notice the new, sudden stinging in the heels of his hands, failed to feel or see the trickles of blood on his fingers. No, all his panicked mind was capable of deciphering was; a witch was chasing him with her broom to…to…to cook him and he needed to take immediate and quick flight!

So he did.

Well, immediate was accomplished. Quick? Not so much.

All he could hope for was he could hobble, hunched over with his arms crossed over his stomach - resembling a twisted, gnarled tree - faster than she could fly on that broom!

"HEY! Where are YOU going?" Maggie bellowed. "YOU THERE! YOU COME BACK HERE!"

He burst out the front door, Maggie on his heels wielding her broom as though she were clearing cobwebs from overhead. And if the neighbors happened to see mild mannered Maggie Mills chasing a man out of her house with a broom, threatening and hollering, well, it was the hottest week in recorded history in Rapid City, South Dakota and the unbearable heat might certainly make people do out-of-the-ordinary – ah – things.

Dean hit the front porch, his car within his bleary, blurred sight and…..went head first over the railing into the bushes below; bushes that luckily cushioned his fall, preventing his head from striking the ground; bushes that were unfortunately, rosebushes.

"AACCKK!" Maggie shrieked, broom waving madly over her head as she hopped up and down. Boy, would her joints be aching tomorrow. Wasn't enough Ben-gay in the house. "MY POSIES!" she wailed. "MY BEATIFUL ROSES!" she whacked his boots. "MY HUSBAND PLANTED THOSE WITH HIS OWN TWO HANDS!" whack, whack. "AND HE COULDN'T GROW MOLD!" whack, whack, whack. "IF YOU HURT ONE THORN ON THOSE LOVELY BUSHES!" whack, whack, whack, whack. "OH, HOW COULD YOU?!"

"Mrs. Mills?"

Maggie froze, then nonchalantly turned the broom around and gently set the bristled end against her porch floor before turning to smile sunnily at her visitor. "Why, good morning Barry. Nice weather, is it not? Hot enough for you?" her teeth were gritted but she showed no outward discontent.

"Are you…..is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes of course it is." she continued to smile like an idiot. Like she had no idea two booted feet were sticking out of her prize (if only in her eyes) rosebushes. "Why do you ask?"

"I do believe there's a pair of boots sticking out of your rosebushes."

"Oh yes, those." she nodded, waving a dismissive hand. "Yes." she sniffed. "So, there is."

"And they appear to be attached to a pair of denim clad legs."

"Yes, yes." she continued to wave him off distractedly. How on earth was she ever going to get him out of her hedges doing the least possible damage to her roses? Better to sacrifice some skin than risk irreparable damage to her petals and leafs, right? After all, skin grew back. Broken flower stems and stalks did not.

And really, if there happened to be any scars, why they would be faint and small – if there were any at all. They were merely thorns from rosebushes - their pointy points scratched, they didn't actually puncture. She frowned, toes tapping. Did they? Hey, just how badly did rose thorns puncture human skin anyway?

"Do you require assistance?" Barry, her middle-aged, plump neighbor was asking politely. "May I be of help?"

Maggie scowled and threw her broom to the floor. "Dean?" she stomped her foot and clapped her hands. "Come out of those bushes right now." when Dean didn't miraculously and immediately pop out of her bushes, she threw an epic temper-tantrum that would have put a two-year old to shame. "Dean! Don't MAKE me COME IN there after YOU. You won't LIKE it if I do. Oh, I never! I swear you pull these stunts deliberately just to try my patience! COME OUT OF THERE THIS INSTANT!"

"Should I call the police?" Barry asked calmly. He eyed the boots that, no longer under attack from a broom wielding feisty senior citizen, were fluttering – almost like they were swimming. Huh, that was odd. Oh there, the bushes were rustling, moving and Barry waited patiently, but nope, no other body parts emerged.

"What?" Maggie held a hand to her chest. "The who? Oh no, no, that won't be necessary. He will come out of my bushes immediately or I will BOX HIS EARS!" her voice rose shrilly, then she moaned in dismay. "Oh, my lovely, lovely blooms!"

"Are you acquainted with the owner of those boots?" Barry asked, unperturbed by Maggie's recent outburst. He merely raised an eyebrow at the spectacle that was his neighbor; did no more than blink. In fact, he appeared quite non-pulsed that normally mild mannered Mrs. Margaret Mills had chased a young man out her front door and into her bushes with a broom.

Never seen him before in my life. Maggie heaved a sigh, wavering. She could deny knowing him, but then, she'd called him by name. If she denied acquaintance, Barry would call the police and they would come and remove him from both her bushes and her home….well, her life. He would no longer be her problem. She brightened at the cheery thought then deflated just as quickly. Oh, that wouldn't do. It would likely remove Jody from her life as well and that was not something she was willing to risk.

There was no hope for it. Dean was not coming out of her beloved rosebushes without some prodding. She scooped up her broom and whacked him soundly across the back of his calves. She sniffed over the broken foliage and crushed petals, vowing revenge. "Dean. Winchester. You. Come. Out. Of. My. Bushes. Right. Now."

He mumbled something.
Barry looked on.
A crowd had gathered.
A dog barked.
Maggie dropped her broom, grabbed an ankle and pulled.
A cop car pulled up.
Then a rescue vehicle.
Followed by a fire truck.
By the time the hook-n-ladder pulled up, Maggie was halfway over the railing, tugging fruitlessly on the back of Dean's jeans, screeching about her bushes.

Incensed over the scene, and embarrassed in front of her neighbors, Maggie was in a fit. Oh, she could just bet what had happened. Someone had texted someone. The fire department was volunteer. The members tended to gather at the station and gossip. Having nothing better to do, they'd decided to take a drive and see what the hub-bub was over on Meryleville Street. The emergency vehicles hadn't come with sirens or lights. So, non-emergency, but they were out and not for a parade and people were nosy, erhm, curious and had followed them to their destination: her front yard. Why, she just bet the whole bloody town was on her sidewalk or driveway or lawn and if this went on much longer, someone would bring donuts and ask for lemonade.

She. Was. Going. To. Kill. Him.

"Oh! Do be careful!" Maggie fluttered about anxiously while four firemen attempted to extract Dean from her rosebushes. "Watch…watch it. Oh! Oh my! Take it easy! Not so hard! Oh, not like that! HEY! They're delicate, you know! Will they recover? Will they be okay? They aren't damaged too badly, are they?"

"Don't worry ma'am." one of the firemen said. He wasn't wearing any protective gear so perhaps he was distracted or the heat distorted his hearing or maybe he was trying not to laugh at her predicament. Whatever his problem, he apparently misunderstood her. "He's a hearty fellow. Some scratches. He'll be alright." he assured her.

"Not HIM!" Maggie gasped, aghast. "MY FLOWERS!" her palms held her cheeks and she paced nervously. "Who here has a green thumb? Anyone?" she stomped up, down, up. "He comes out of there dead, I'll kill him!" she muttered. "Show up at my door, hurt my flowers, cause a scene." stomp, stomp, stomp. "Embarrass me in front of everyone…..WHAT?" she roared, rounding on the police officer who was attempting to ask her questions. "Now?" she fumed. "Oh, do try and save that one! It's the only yellow…..oh and that one! It's my purple…see here now, don't worry about his pretty face. He can see perfectly well out of one eye."

"Mrs. Mills? If you would, please. Answer some questions."

Oh very well! Yes, she knew him; he was the drunken brother of her daughter-in-law; no, he hadn't harassed her; yes, he'd been invited; no, there was no need to arrest him or remove him from her property, just from her roses; yes, he'd be staying with her and had she a dog house, he'd sleep there.

"Paul?" another fireman beckoned. Dean was up and out of the bushes, lying limply on the porch floor on his back. He was breathing – barely – eyes open and focused but neither moving nor responding.

The two firemen conversed quietly, checking Dean's pupils and pulse, discussing the bruises and swelling on his stomach and torso and ribs, courtesy of an ass-kicking by a 5' troll, though they didn't know that. Maggie continued her porch-pacing tirade, muttering dire consequences to Sam for not keeping his brother on a leash!

Barry looked on.
The crowd grew.
The dog had made a friend.
Someone took pictures.
Nosy ole Myrtle whose back yard butted against Maggie's was asking who would like ice tea.

Oh…ooh…oh, that was the last straw!

"Jake? Hey, better call an ambulance." Paul called.

Maggie had paused in her stomping and was staring vacantly at her feet. Huh, she'd lost a slipper. She glanced around, nope, nowhere in sight Where had it gone? Oh, her door stood wide open! All her a/c was getting out! She went over and slammed it shut. Those window units were mighty expensive to run and…wait, what?

"Ambulance?" she repeated, stunned. "Ambu…..FOR WHAT?! A few measly scratches from rose THORNS?!"

"He's having trouble breathing ma'am." Paul, the fireman said gently. "He has some injuries that…"

Oh No! My table! All that glass! The splintered wood. I hit him with my broom! I chased him from my house! I sent him over a railing head first into rosebushes! I did him harm! I killed the boy! Oh, how will I tell Jody? How will I face Sam? SAM! OOhhhh…woooooeeeee….OOhhhhhh!

She paused. She was in her nightgown, with curlers in her hair, minus a slipper. Her bathrobe had come undone. Her top dentures sat in a glass on the bathroom sink. She had no idea what had happened to her glasses. She was a sightly spectacle in front of everyone in town!

She fainted.

Just dropped like a stone, right there on her porch: In front of everyone; in her nightgown, with curlers in her hair, minus a slipper, with her robe gaping open and without her glasses or her teeth.

Thud.

She would never live this down. She would have to change churches. She would have to cancel her library membership. She would have to quit the book club. She could never show her face at the local store again. Never hold her head up at a neighborhood watch meeting…..no, no, not good enough. She would have to move. She would have to change her name. She would….why, she would move right in with the brothers! Yes, what a marvelous idea! See how they liked having a senior citizen fussing about their home. She frowned…oh, dear, they didn't live in a cave did they? She was rather fond of the comforts of a home: electricity, cable, mattresses, pillows, bed sheets, refrigerators – why, she just so happened to know that a person could hide from gun-wielding maniacs behind their doors – indoor plumbing and laundry machines and….

Hey, wait a minute, she was unconscious! She shouldn't be having any thoughts!

Oh, so this is how it ends. Goodbye life. You were a good to me. You were a good life. I'll miss you. You were full of love and laughter and joy. You didn't provide me with riches but you provided a great home and vacations and designer clothes and educations for my boys. And you brought me my beloved husband. Oh, you gave me your share of heartache, the loss of a son and a grandson, but you gave me Jody, the daughter I'd always wanted. Sorry, you had to end this way. Here on my porch, with everyone looking on; me, with no dignity.

SMACK!

Oh now! Now what the blazes is that? Stop slapping my cheek! Stop it, I say! Yes, yes, that is my name. Margaret, Maggie, Mrs. Mills, Mom, Gramma, I respond to all. Who are you? What is going on? Of course I'm all right! Why on earth wouldn't I be? No, I certainly do not require an ambulance. Good Grief! They're just bushes! Okay, yes, perhaps I over reacted a bit, but I was over wrought! You see, I had a visitor and…..

Her eyes flew open. "DEAN!"