By: Karen B.

Summary: Conclusion.


Sam floated in a deep, purple blackness. Had he been swallowed by some unknown beast? Now lying in the things belly, waiting for acid to flush forth and digest him whole.

"Sam. Sam." Someone shook his shoulder.

"Dean?" Sam creaked open tiny, sleep-filled eyes.

Dean was crouched down beside him, flashlight beam scanning the walls throwing strange shadows on the oddly shaped stone.

"Who'd you think, dude? The butler, Alfred?" Dean joked, but his expression remained serious.

"Basement, Dean. Not Bat cave."

"Whatever you say, Boy Wonder," Dean shined the beam of light on Sam. "Can you sit up?" He asked, wincing at the pale, gray color of his brother's pinched face, blood slowly dribbling down both sides.

"Okay," Sam agreed, slowly scooting up. "Ehhhh," he groaned, his stomach churning and the room spinning.

"Your head the only thing hurting?" Dean searched his duffle, finding a piece of dressing and wiping away some of the blood on Sam's face. "Nice baseball-sized bump you got on the side of your face, Nolan."

"I'm good." Sam shrunk away from the touch.

"Sure you are," Dean hissed, tossing the useless dressing aside, flashlight beam going back to scanning the room.

"Dude!" Sam caught his breath. "There's something in the basement."

"Yeah, okay. So this time there was. What? You want a Scooby snack or something?" Dean huffed. He picked up Sam's unlit flashlight lying next to him. "Did you see what the 'something' was?" he asked, flicking the switch up and down, nothing.

"Only a shadow sliding along the wall. Was too fast. Dean." Sam struggled to stand. "We need to get out of here. It could still be here, and we dont' know what we are dealing with." Sam flopped back down to the hardness of the basement floor, mouth twisting in pain.

"When we do find out, that thing is so toast!" Dean angrily shook the flashlight casing, batteries rattling around. "We're not going anywhere fast," he said, smiling when the flashlight came back to life. "Here." He handed Sam his flashlight. "Let's go." He gripped Sam's forearm, gently helping his brother to his feet.

"What?" Sam wobbled, weak and shaky. "What happened?" he asked, suddenly noting the basement had changed, damp rock and debris crumbled around them.

Dean moved them both toward the closest wall, he slipped his duffle off his shoulder and crouched down, bringing Sam with him.

"The minute that thing drug you off to the boiler room, the walls came down. Like meteorites blasting through a glass house," Dean informed, using a few grapefruit sized rocks to hold his flashlight in place, freeing both hands. "We have to find another way out of crypt city," he said as he started to pick through the rubble. He worked feverishly a moment or two before noting he was the only one breaking a sweat. "Sam." Dean stopped his work to look at his brother. "This isn't the self-check out line. In case you didn't notice…we got a little problem here."

"We got more than a little problem." Sam pointed his flashlight's beam toward a dark corner, his eyes narrowing to slits. "This whole place smells. It's like…like…" Sam 's voice trailed off in thought.

"What?" Dean titled his head. "Hundred year old prunes?" 'Dude!" Dean waved Sam off. "We're buried in a dark, creepy, basement, and you're worried about grandma's medicinal remedy?"

Sam scowled. "How'd you know."

"About the prunes? The jar you broke, Sam. Remember?" Dean leaned forward. "You said it smelled like grandma's hundred- year -old prunes."

"And piss." Sam shook his head.

Dean grasped Sam's chin, staring deeply into Sam's eyes. "You sure you're…"

"Not grandma's prunes." Sam pulled away from Dean's grasp and started digging through the rubble. "I remember reading something on the net once."

"What was that, lap top boy?" Dean asked in total disinterest.

"I don't know -- it's hookie."

All of Dean's muscles tightened as he watched Sam a moment. The kid was struggling to see straight as he worked, swallowing down constantly, his face more pale than before.

"By hookie you mean, like aliens and Bigfoot?" Dean asked, finally forcing himself to go back to digging

"Pfffft." Sam gazed sidelong at Dean, but didn't stop tunneling.

"Whatever 'hookie' is…I'm not going to like it, am I?" Dean brooded, tunneling through the rubble like a groundhog on Red Bull.

"No." Sam confirmed.

"When you say Grandma, you're not talking innocent, egg salad making, cap knitting, cheek pinching grannies anymore -- are we, Sam?"

"Sorry." Sam confirmed, again. "Dean, that jar -- not just a jar -- a witches bottle." With effort, Sam tossed a football-sized rock over his shoulder.

"I hate that word, Sam. That's so not cool."

"I know."

"Why the hell would they keep a witch like a bug in a jar?"

"I don't know."

"Badass, awesome," Dean grumbled. "And you let the jar slip right through your greasy Pork Rind fingers, jinx." Dean kept digging, faster now.

"So where's grandma-witch now?" Dean growled.

"Still don't know." Sam paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Dean, lets just get out of here. We'll figure it out and come back to kill her." Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

"Probably become a human fossil before we ever dig our way out of…." Dean looked abruptly at his brother. "Sam?" he questioned. "Hey." He frowned when he got no answer. "Hey!" he repeated louder.

"Just a little headache," Sam offered, catching Dean's inquiring stare.

"You might have a concussion. " Dean leaned toward Sam, peering into his eyes. "Why don't you take a break."

"What? And listen to your crap for the next millennium," Sam joked, wiping a forearm across his mouth and going back to tossing rocks over his shoulder. "No way, jerk." Sam's brow twisted in pain, eyes large and glassy, but he kept digging.

"Yeah." Dean too, went back to digging. "Whatever," he grunted, lifting an extra large piece of granite. "You know what then…" he rolled the rock to the side. "Bitch," Dean breathed heavily. "Why don't you…" he was cut short by the appearance of a small hole in the wall. Dean stuck his hand through feeling cold drops of rain hit his fingers. "…Dig faster, so we can get the hell out of here, " Dean said, excitedly.

A chill ran through Sam's body, his teeth chattered, his body sweat soaked, shaggy hair draped over his eyes. It was a struggle to keep those eyes open and for that matter, his head from falling off his shoulders. He had the mother of all headaches, but kept digging -- widening the hole.


"What?" Using both hands, Sam pushed his fingers through his hair, getting his bangs out of his eyes.


Sam swallowed hard, and kept on digging

"Sam?" Dean called again. "I can see you, but are you sure you're really here with me, man?"

Sam slowly raised his head to look at Dean.

"I'm here with you, Dean," he said, softly.

"Good." Dean hesitated.. "We're almost there. Just don't face plant on me now. After we figure out how to gank that thing that drug you down here, we'll get your head patched up and get me something to eat." Satisfied Sam wasn't going to blackout at the moment, he went back to tunneling through the rubble.

"Dean, always with the food." Sam crinkled his nose feeling nauseous.

"So, I like food. Beats the hell out of your fetish." Dean kept up the banter.

"I don't have any fetishes."

"Yes, you do."

"Like what?"

"Like the way you're always looking at yourself in the mirror."

"Shut up!"

"I'm starving!" Dean continued to grope at the hole, fingertips raw and bloody.

"I think we already established that, Dean." Sam turned to stare toward a dark corner, seeing nothing he went back to work.

"Maybe I'll order up a hamburger," Dean said, studying Sam out of the corner of his eye. "And a piece of …" Dean turned, tossing a rock aside. "…Pickled old bitch!" he howled in disgust.

Sam twisted around. There the thing in the basement stood as he expected. She was old, ugly, and completely bald -- no eyelashes or eyebrows -- bald. Her long, black, ruffled dress flowed around her like crow's wings. Her face was dark, and black smudges encircled her bi-colored eyes -- one pitch black, the other ruby red.

"That's her," Sam announced, noting the witch had not moved, except for the slight twitch of her worm-like lips.

"You think? You sure it's not Marilyn Manson," Dean muttered, his fingers fumbling for his duffle. "Sam, keep at that hole."

"Dean, hurry." Sam turned around, digging through the rubble as fast as he could." She hasn't attacked yet 'cause I think she's mumbling some sort of spell or curse."

Dean had the sawed-off out of his duffle and into his hand, pointing the weapon steadily at the witch. Dean didn't have to check the chamber. The gun was loaded with shells. Ammo regular -- shit. Didn't matter, rock salt pellets probably wouldn't do anything either, not even slow her down, Dean was fairly certain. Witches were things to be stoned or burned. Before Dean could test his theory, the pickled old broad took one step toward him. A low growl erupted from her, and with the flick of one long fingernail, sent the gun flinging one way -- Dean the other.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Dean's back hit the wall hard, dropping him down to the damp ground. "Hahahahaha!"

"Dean!" Sam stopped digging, started to lunge toward the witch

The witch squared off with Sam. Her lips still moving, crooked, gray finger pointing his way. Sam froze, unable to move.

"Over here broadzilla," Dean gritted out clenched teeth, trying to take the witches attention from his brother. "Finish what you started, bitch!" He drug himself over sharp stone and debris to get to the sawed- off. " Gripping the rifle, he struggled to his feet.

Dean got off a shot, but not fast enough. The witch took in a long deep breath and in a streak of hot white light, slammed into Sam dragging him out the hole with unnaturally freakish speed.

"Noooooo!" Dean screamed, gathering his duffle and weapon he charged toward the hole, crawling like a worm through the tight space.

He stood ankle deep in mud, just outside the crumpled house, rain pelting down.

"Sam!" He frantically looked around. "Sammy!" The crackle of lighting zig-zagged across the sky illuminating the area. The nearby Oak rotting oak trees sparkled as its branches illuminated like blue webs. Just as another bolt of lightning hit too close to home, Dean caught site of footprints on the muddy dirt road, behind them -- drag marks.

"That bitch is so canned, " Dean said in a pissed off tone, running off in the direction the tracks led.


Dean clutched his cell in his hand, having dialed Sam's number for the tenth time hoping against hope his brother would answer. At the very least he hoped to hear the familiar ring tone -- a beacon to Sam's whereabouts. The cascading sheets of rain had slowed and only static electricity remained in the cool air. Dean made his way through mud puddles stepping in and out of thorny brush, vines, and oddly shaped trees of the woods he now found himself in. The muddy ground turned to swampy grass, his boots sinking deeper with each step. Fog rose from the ground, twisting and swirling around the area like some sort of strange dreamland. He was drenched and chilled to the core, but he wouldn't stop. He had to find Sam. He also had to know more about the ugly witch and how to kill her ugly ass. With geek boy missing and no laptop or time to research, Dean pushed number two on his cell.

"You idgit. I was in the middle of culinary perfection. Raspberry soufflé -- deflated -- doesn't taste the same."


"Don't you know a great soufflé makes the man, boy!"

"Bobby, we..."

"Baking one of these things is Shakespearean, " Bobby continued to spout off. "And you can't ever…"

"Bobby!" Dean yelled louder. "Sam's in…"

"Trouble," Bobby rattled on. "What kind of cock-and-bull story do you have for me this time? Can't you two girls ever call me with something normal. Last I heard you were squatting in an old abandon, un-haunted house."

"Bobby, just…"

"What'd Sam do? Find a clown suit in the basement."

"Bobby, please, just listen!" The panic in Dean's tone finally broke through, stopping Bobby's venting cold. "Look." Dean glanced at his watch, one hour had passed since Sam had been taken. "Sam found an old glass jar in the basement, he said something about it being a witches bottle."

"Don't tell me, Mr. Uncoordinated dropped the dang thing."

"Jumangi!" Dean exclaimed. "Next thing you know he's being dragged down the steps by some pickled old bitch who tried to bury us down there. We dug out, but not before she took Sam. I need to know how to gank this witch, and I need to know now. Sam's life …"

Did he say anything about smelling something."?" Bobby questioned in a serious tone.

"Yes." Dean kept walking, staring upward, noting the clouds had parted the rain stopped. "Yes, yes he did." Dean frowned. "That's creepy. He said he smelled…"Dean paused a moment in thought. "Old prunes and piss."

"This is no normal witch, Dean. Someone created that jar, a spell to keep the old croon locked away. You can't kill her the normal stone or burn way," Bobby informed seriously. "You got to get to Sam. She's going to try to put a spell on him. She has one hell of a seductive appetite. She'll have Sam tied up. Chant a few words, send a spike through his chest, and drink the blood of his heart. After that, Sam becomes hers forever."

"Bobby, what are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is, Sam would be the bitches eternal boy toy."

"What! What the hell, Bobby…"

"Calm down, Dean. You'll need to cut off a finger or some small part of her, stick the appendage inside a glass bottle or glass jar full of your urine. Has to be glass, and has to be before she finishes the chant."

"Golden shower? What the fu…" Dean's mouth dropped open.

"Works like a charm, urine. Purifies the evil inside of her. Just do it, Dean, then you have to burn the jar with her inside. Most folks don't know that. Just keep the old bag around, stored on a shelf…'case they ever need to put a curse on their meddling neighbor. Idgits," Bobby sighed. "Only way to know the croon is truly dead is when the glass explodes from the heat of the fire. And don't you or your brother be anywhere near when the glass blows either."

"Why not?"

"Because her power is blinding even in death, and both your brains will be registering a big fat zero for the next fifty years if you are anywhere near the blast."

" That would suck," Dean mumbled.

"Copy that, boy?"

"Copy that. Thanks, Bobby. We'll call you later."

"You blockheads better."

The connection broken, Dean dug in his pack pulling out a bottle of JD, grateful he always kept the liquid painkiller handy.

He hurried along, unscrewing the cap, and turned the bottle upside down leaving a trail of whiskey in his wake. He had to find Sam. How far could the old bitch have dragged his brother. Sam wasn't an easy load to carry. Even for Dean. And Sam would certainly be putting up a fight. What if Dean couldn't find him on time? And Sam truly did became that friggin' witches boy toy.

"Ewww." Dean shivered

With those troubled thoughts racing around in his head, he stopped under a large tree, and unzipped his fly. Being endowed with the male appendage had more than one advantage. This certainly wasn't the first time Dean had to piss in a bottle. Living on the road the way Sam and Dean did, there was always a shortage of bathrooms. Begging a gas station attendant for a bathroom key was just stupid. And pulling one's injured self out of the back seat of a warmed up Impala after a haunt -- usually not an option.

Dumping a bottle of perfectly good Jack into the dirt -- now that sucked.

"Always a first time for everything," Dean muttered, zipping up his fly.

Capping and stuffing the bottle now full of urine in his inside jacket pocket, Dean went back to trying to pick up Sam's trail.


The rain gone, the half- moon appeared, throwing crazy shadows around Dean and played tricks on his mind. A rustling in the brush made him stop cold. Dean turned his rifle toward the sound, sighing when he saw a raccoon scurry away.

He took two steps, but froze again, swearing he heard Sam calling his name. He sucked in a breath, eyes fixed straight ahead -- listening. The silence was almost deafening and the seconds stretched out like hours, but he heard nothing.

"Sam, come on, man," Dean whispered gravely. "Where are you?"

Dean turned to head East when he took notice of something. Guardedly, he moved to crouch near a thicket of thorny brush, frowning in concentration. The print was faint. Dean traced the mark, bringing his fingertips close to his face for inspection. Mud mixed with drops of fresh blood. The heel mark -- signature Sasquatch. Dean was certain, he rose quickly. He swallowed down his fear, racing off in the direction the half-track had indicated, each sloppy thump of his boots matching the uneven thump of his heartbeat.


"Dean." The faint, pain-filled shout reached into Dean's gut, threatening to pull his stomach's contents up and out his mouth certain of what he heard.

Dean stayed the course, never slowing. Sam's cries spurring him on.

He skirted around a grove of gray, leafless trees, sucking in the smell of death and decay. His stomach churned and his vision blurred, but his eyes adjusted rapidly.

"Sam," he choked, seeing his baby brother strung up by wrists and ankles. All four points tied with rope pulling him taunt between four dead trees. Sam hung only a few feet off the ground. The pickled old witch stood stiffly over him chanting, and holding what looked like a sharpened wooden stake over Sam's heart. The only sound, Sam's harsh breathing, and the rustling of a her black dress.

Dean dropped his pack to the ground, exchaning the rifle for his hunting knife. The pale light of the moon reflected off the blade. Dean circled around, a shadow in the dark, moving slow, eyes narrowed to slits and never leaving his prey. The witch was still babbling some crude language Dean didn't understand. He drew closer, making no sound, showing no fear.

Sam seemed out of it.

"Dean." Sam called in a slurred tone.

"Right here, Sam." Six foot and one inch of 'don't ever fuck with my brother' stepped out of the darkened woods.

The witch screeched -- a horrible, shrill howl taking several steps toward Dean.

"Come to Daddy," Dean growled lunging forward, knife poised and ready.

The witch raised a hand stopping Dean as if he'd struck a brick wall.

"Ahhh!" Dean stumbled back dazed, going down to his knees -- hitting the ground with a hard plop

"Dean." Sam's voice came out small, but Dean could hear the frightened tone.

The moon flickering in and out of the clouds was like a strobe light of confusion.

"Ow!" Pain shot through Dean's body as he pushed himself up. He teetered to and fro, momentarily stunned. Staring toward Sam, the witch was standing over him once again, still chanting. "I'm over here! Come get me!" Dean demanded, taking a few drunken, dizzying steps, desperate to keep a hold of his knife.

The witch didn't pause, seeming to be completely concentrating all her energy on finishing the spell. A dark shadow began to rise up from the ground beneath Sam as she lowered the stake to his chest, menacingly pressing the tip inward.

"Dean!" Sam tensed, panic-stricken he fought but his muscles were weak from being bound and didn't seem to cooperate.

"Sam, no!" Dean exploded forward, his expression hard.

Ignoring his pain, Dean dove at the witch knocking her to the ground. He drew his knife back.

"Nobody' messes with my brother!" He yelled, stabbing the old the old hag in the chest, before she could cast another spell and send him reeling.

The witch's mouth dropped open and she let out a surprised scream, trying to scuttle away. Dean was on her, grabbing her by the hand and whacking off a gray, bony finger, faster than Emerald could chop an onion. Blood spurted out onto the sleeve of Dean's jacket. The witch wailed, twisting out from under Dean and rolling away, sinking into the shadows of the trees. Holding tight to the appendage, and the bile roiling in his stomach, Dean pulled the bottle of Jack now filled with his piss from his inside jacket pocket. He shuddered, unscrewed the bottle, and stuffed the finger in.

Standing, he scanned the shadows where the witch had gone and waited. It didn't take long for the moon's spotlight to find her. She was huddled against a nearby tree, her back to him, just as he capped the lid and screwed it tight, she let out a mournful scream.

"Dean," Sam weakly called.

Before Dean could turn around, the witch ghostly evaporated and the jar in Dean's hand shook.

"Gottcah!" He quickly clapped the cap on the bottle and tightened down.

Wrapping a firm hand around the glass, he stuffed the bottled witch safely back in his jacket's inside pocket -- he wasn't letting the pickled biddy out of his possession for a second. He'd burn the bottle later, but right now he had to take care of Sam.

Slipping and sliding in the mud, Dean made his way back to Sam. Sam's eyes were squeezed shut, his face nearly matching the graying trees he was tied to.

"No. No. No." Sam twisted, and struggled against the bindings.

"Easy, hey, hey, hey!" Dean tapped a palm softly to his brother's cheek "Sam!" Tap. Tap. Tap. "Hey, come on man. It's me. Look here." Sam stopped struggling and opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice, three times. "You with me?" Dean asked.

Sam stared, searching the face that loomed above him. Dean could see the kid was scared and in pain, confused.

"She's gone. It's just me now, bro," Dean said in a calm tone, giving Sam's shoulder a soft squeeze.

"Dean." White puffs of air exhaled through Sam's clenched teeth. "What happened?"

"You almost became that pickled old bitches ball and chain, dude." Dean snickered. "How you doing?" he asked seriously, running a hand through Sam's damp hair.

"I've had worse." Sam winced as Dean's fingertips roamed over his earlier head wound. "Just can't remember when."

"Yeah." Dean nodded his understanding. Head wounds sucked always left you out of the loop. "Give me a second, and I'll cut you down." Dean gazed at his brother noting how weak Sam looked, a small amount of blood oozing from his chest where the bitch had pressed the tip of the stake. "You think you can keep that gigantic, over informed head of yours from hitting the ground?" Dean worriedly asked, knowing he couldn't cut the rope and pillow Sam's fall at the same time. Sam sure didn't need another knock in the head right now.

"Just do it," Sam managed to whisper through his dry throat.

Dean made short work of cutting the bindings. As expected, Sam flopped to the ground with a grunt, taking in quick breaths and laying still.

"Shit," Dean quietly cursed, sinking to the ground next to Sam. "Let's take a look at this." Dean skimmed a hand over Sam's chest, pulling back his reddened fingers. "That bitch," he said, his tone pitched someplace between worry and anger. He tore a hole in Sam's shirt to get a better look. "It's not that bad, but you're going to need a few stitches to close that up." Dean assessed.

"Dean…" Sweat dripped off Sam's bangs, trickling over his cheek, mixing with blood, and sliding down the side of his neck. "I can wait." Sam reached to place his hand against his wound, but his dexterity was off by a mile.

"Here." Dean guided Sam's hand to his chest. "You sure you can wait?"

"Yeah, it's too dark, you can't see here anyway. Don't want you stitching the wrong spot, or making a scar."

"Whatever." Dean nodded reluctantly.

He retrieved his duffle, quickly returning to haul Sam gently to his feet. Sam swayed, the simple exertion making him breathe heavily, trembling legs wanting to give out. Dean pressed a steady hand to Sam's arm standing at his side waiting for his brother to get his taxed muscles under control.

"Let's just go." Sam's head lolled, and he fought to keep from passing out.

"Come on, bro. We're off the clock now. Just take a minute to catch your breath."

"I'll crawl back if I have to," Sam said as confidently as he could, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. "Just, let's go." He moved, gangly and uncoordinated.

"Okay," Dean sighed, instinct telling him Sam was right.

Sam was an armload, but Dean held tight, walking them back to the house where the car was still parked. The moon had disappeared again, the wind and rain back. Sam felt weak and dizzy. To exhausted to think or keep his eyes open, he let his blind faith in his brother lead the way back.

"Can you keep going, Sam?"

"Yes." Sam did his part and kept walking.

His legs and arms burned, dark gray shadows danced around the forest seeming to come alive, sucking up all the oxygen in the atmosphere.

"Sam? Dean called. "You going to make it?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam's shoulders slumped and his head hung down.

Nausea rolled over him like hurricane sized waves hitting the beach, his steps growing slower. His muscles twitched and he heaved in gulps of air. Everything grew darker, and all Sam could think about was sitting down. He felt solid hands grab hold of him, his back now shoved against something rough and hard.

"Sam! Sam!. Sam!"

"Wha'?" Sam slurred in annoyance, lifting his head he opened his eyes, black spots peppering his vision.

"Dean, what?" Sam asked finding he was somehow now sandwiched between Dean and a tree.

"What do you think, man?" Dean sounded angry. "You almost planted your nose in the dirt." His lips twisted. "Damn, Sam, that's a nice color green you've turned."

"Not my favorite color," Sam garbled.

"You all right?" Dean asked keeping Sam's sagging body pinned against the tree.

"Am I still bleeding?" Sam asked.

"What do you think?" Dean's voice now full of sympathy.

"I think it's raining, and we should get back to the house."

"Well, your good at telling the weather."

"And the truth."

"What truth?"

"You know," Sam grumbled. "'Cause there really was something in the basement," he answered for Dean.

"No shit, Sam." Dean could see his brother's whole self trembling. "Bitch sure was not put together like a Playboy bunny," he continued to grouse, offering Sam a moment more to collect himself. "Had you eating out of her hand, though," Dean laughed, giving Sam a cocksure smile.

"So, admit it." Sam took a shaky breath. His head hurt and the small puncture where the tip of the stake had pierced his skin, burned.

"Admit what?"

"I'm not fourteen anymore, Dean. This time around, I was right."

"Dude, What do you want me to do? Buy you a Hallmark card for the occasion -- because I'm sure they have one," Dean griped.

"That'd be a start," Sam mumbled, his back slipping down the tree trunk.

"No…no, you don't." Dean pulled Sam up by his arms. "Come on, Queen Latifah, the car is only a few more yards.

"What about the house?" Sam asked.

"Motel Six, here we come," Dean wise cracked. "And after I stitch that wound, you can write in your diary about how your brother screwed up. Right next to the entry about how I blast my music to loud, talk in my sleep, and stuff food in my mouth like a hamster with a tape worm."

"It's not a dairy, Dean. It's a journal. And stay out of it or I'll kick your ass." Sam used his elbows to nudge away from the support of the tree.

"You can walk, yes?" Dean asked, keeping a hand on his brother's arm for support.

"Yes," Sam replied quietly, allowing the contact.

They walked in silence, the rain had stopped again, now only pattering to the ground from the wet leaves. Dean was anxious to get someplace warm and dry where he could get Sam's wounds cleaned and tuck the kid into bed. After which, he would find a quiet place to toss the witch bottle into a rip-roaring fire. Dean cringed. The glass bottle was tucked safe inside his jacket, the witch trapped inside, but he could still feel her evil thrumming against his rib cage.

Dean kept a light hand on Sam's forearm, watching Sam closely. He was still shaken, his feet tangling now and again as he struggled to walk a straight line. He looked young, and vulnerable, almost like he did that day when Dean had found the fourteen- year-old, locked in the basement so many years ago.

He should have respected Sam's fear, not sent him into it.

"Sam, about that fourteen- year-old boy's imagination. A big brother should never tease a little brother who really needed to know things were okay, that he was believed," Dean said sadly.

"Dean, it's okay." Sam swallowed, his throat dry and achy. "That was a long time ago, and I'm sure little brother understands, it's what big brother's do."

"Still, I bet that little brother was really scared that day and big brother just blew him off. He should have paid more attention to what the kid had been through. Shadows galloping all around in a dark basement. Trapped. Words and voices in his head, talking about his mother. Being alone, in the dark, afraid. Scared he was the reason why his family was cursed, forced to haunt these evil son's of bitches -- that he was to blame for his mom's death." Dean bit his lip, feeling a hard shiver run through Sam. "Big brother should never have left little brother alone to get trapped in the dark," he said guiltily. "I think big brother needs that fourteen- year-old boy to know he's not to blame for anything. That he's normal. That big brother wants to keep him safe." Dean squeezed Sam's arm for emphasis. "Do you think he knows?"

"Yeah, Dean." Sam gave a small smile. "He knows. Hey." Sam's expression went from soft to hard, glaring angrily at Dean. "How'd you know I was feeling all that. I never told…"

"The dairy/journal." They both said in unison.

"Dean, how many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my stuff." Sam pulled away from Dean, trying to dodge a puddle. "Ugh," he stumbled, his left sneaker sinking into the dirty water, mud splashing his jeans .

"Whoa! Whoa!" Dean's hands shot out grabbing a handful of Sam. "Wait a second. I got you." He eased Sam against his side for more support. "Dude, I didn't know it was your dairy…ah…journal…whatever… at first."

"What'd you think it was, Dean -- Betty Crocker's cookbook?"

Dean raised a brow, and cocked his head to the right. "Reads like one."

"Bro, so not fun…"

"Shit!" Dean fumbled in his pocket. "I forgot, I have to call Bobby.

"Bobby?" Sam questioned.

"How do you think I figured out how to trap the pickled bitch back in the jar?" Dean said wearily, pressing two on his cell. "Can you keep walking?"

"Can you stay out of my diary?"

"Journal," Dean corrected -- Sam rolled his eyes. "Bobby," Dean sighed, helping Sam to move along, happy to see they were nearing the car. "He's with me. Little banged up, but I got him. You don't have to remind me," Dean sighed. "I'll burn her soon as I get Sam settled at a Motel." Dean scowled and shook his head. "No, Bobby, I didn't know cooking Mini Quiche was like writing a romance poem."

"What?" Sam wrinkled his brow. "Bobby possessed by Julia Childs or something?"

Dean shrugged.

"Yes, sir. We'll see you in a couple days. Thanks, Bobby." Dean flipped his phone shut just as they approached the car.

"You know something, Sam?" Dean questioned, carefully leading Sam to the passenger side.

"What's that?" Sam pulled the door open and sat inside.

"I hate witches."

"Me too, Dean."

The end.


"Bobby, these things are totally rockin'" Sam popped another mini quiche in his mouth.

"I love the crap out of them," Dean added, stuffing two down his throat.

"I tried my hand at something really new an different -- Pacha." Bobby waved excitedly toward the kitchen. "Want to try some?"

"Hell, yes," Sam mumbled around a mouth full.

"Bring it. " Dean smiled.

Bobby smiled, hurriedly going to the kitchen.

"What the hell is Pacha?" Sam asked.

"Don't know," Dean burped. "But if he cooked it -- I'll eat it.

Bobby returned with a silver platter full of garden greens. In the center lay a boiled sheep head, its hollow eye sockets staring off into the distance.

"Pacha," he announced proudly.


Okay…sorry 'bout that…now I'm done…whatever… LOL…

Dreamer's note: There is such a thing as witch bottles…and the use of urine among other things put inside of them for protection, or to trap evil spirits. I so seriously tore up, mutilated, twisted, and otherwise fabricated the real facts for the purpose of fun …in creating this crazy little thing called -- a story.