(Continued from Dark Secrets.)

"Why are we doing this again?" Dean asked as he unloaded his gear on the basement floor of Katt's Bon Bon Boutique.

"To help a friend?" Sam ventured, unsure what his brother was trying to get at. They'd agreed to help Katt get rid of the ghost. It was, after all, what they did for a living.

Dean seemed to be struggling with issues of his own that he wasn't sharing with his brother. "No, I mean....Why are we still in Rhydin, Sam' We haven't even tried to go home."

Sam shrugged, furrowing his brows at his brother and wondering where this line of questioning was coming from. He thought Dean was perfectly happy to be in Rhydin. Why the questions of all of a sudden" "You like it here, Dean."

"I never said that," Dean contradicted, clicking a flashlight on to take a better look around. The place seemed ordinary enough in the daylight, no sign of ghosts or any other unusual activity, but he knew better. He knew it was only a matter of time before the ghost tried to stop them.

"Why don't you just admit it' You're happy here. You have friends here. You don't have to hunt. You can do whatever you want without worrying about demons or angels breathing down your neck. It's like a vacation for you, Dean."

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "A vacation' Does it look to you like we're having a vacation?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, Sam, I don't. You know why' Because no matter where we go, no matter what we do....Rhydin, Earth, Timbuktu....This..." He waved the flashlight around, to indicate their present situation. "This is our lives, this is what we do. You know what happened the first time I was here" You think I was just yukking it up, having a good old time playing house with Quinn" Did you forget about the demons" Did you forget about Abaddon' That son of a bitch is still out there somewhere, and my name is probably at the top of his hit list."

"Dean, I know, but..."

"No buts, Sammy. You always stay on your toes, no matter what. Rhydin or not. Got me?"

Sam nodded his head, but his brother hadn't really denied his original accusation or answered his own question. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home."

Dean frowned, but didn't argue. His brother was right. He was getting used to life on Rhydin and wasn't in any real hurry to get home. He didn't see much point in hurrying anyway, since as far as he knew, time was at a standstill where they were concerned.

Dean pushed his brother's questions aside to focus on the situation at hand, shoving the chains that hung from the ceiling out of his way and swinging the flashlight down into the hole in the floor that held the ghost's bones. He wasn't looking forward to going down there, but someone had to do it, and he knew that someone should be him.

It looked like about a fifteen foot drop, but fortunately, there was a ladder hanging over the edge that led the way down. He wondered if anyone had ever been down there before, other than the murderer. There was only one way to find out.

No sooner had Dean yelled his warning to Sam than he was unexpectedly yanked away from the ladder and thrown across the room by an unseen, incorporeal force he knew had to be the ghost, colliding against the stone wall and falling unconscious to the floor, blood dripping from his mouth.

Up above, Sam heard Dean's warning and then what sounded like another shout from his brother, followed by a thud, and he instinctively knew Dean was in trouble.

"Dean?" he called, lifting the shotgun to his shoulder, stepping closer to cautiously peer into the hole. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn't make out the unmistakable outline of his brother's body lying motionless on the stone floor below.

"Crap," Sam muttered, debating whether to go down after him or wait for the ghost to make another appearance. Time was of the essence, and he didn't know how badly Dean was hurt. He almost wished they were hunting demons or at least something made of flesh and blood. Ghosts were always such a pain in the ass. First you had to find their bones, then you had to salt and burn them, all the while hoping they didn't kill you first.

Before Sam had a chance to react either way, he felt a cold chill up his spine and was shoved forward from behind, stumbling and getting tangled in the chains that still hung above the hole, dropping the shotgun and watching with horror as it fell down the hole to clatter to the floor beside the motionless body of his older brother.

"Like hell he is!"

Sam heard a familiar but seemingly distant voice behind him and somehow recognized it as Dean's. He watched blearily as the ghost lifted his head and turned toward the speaker, exhaling an angry hiss and letting go of Sam's throat. Sam rolled away to his side and gasped for breath, clutching his throat which was throbbing with pain, his lungs burning for air.

Somewhere behind him, he heard the crack of a shotgun and an agonized scream, and he knew Dean had hit his mark. The ghost was gone, for now, but he'd most likely be back.

Dean was suddenly crouched over his brother, feeling like he'd just gone ten rounds with a prize fighter, but he didn't have time to think about that now and neither did Sam. There would be time to lick their wounds later. Now was the time for action, before it was too late.

"Sam!" Dean's voice broke through the haze in his brother's brain, and he felt himself being shaken before Dean was breaking away and hurrying back toward the hole.

"Get your ass down here and help me gather up that bastard's bones. We don't have much time!"

"Dean..." Sam started, looking up at the small opening above their heads, their only known means of escape. Memories flashed suddenly through his mind, like a movie on fast forward, and he winced in pain. Memories of falling endlessly into a deep chasm and then fire, scorching heat and flame that seemed to melt his flesh away. Indescribable pain, unspeakable horror. Memories of Hell. "I don't?" Sam's voice hitched. "I don't wanna get trapped down here."

Dean looked up at his brother, alarmed by the fear he heard in his voice. He could see the haunted look in Sam's eyes, his features pale and strained even in the dim light. He could only guess what torment Sam might have suffered in Hell, but whatever it was, he needed his brother to focus on the task at hand or they might both end up sharing a grave with the corpse of a murderer. Dean shuddered briefly at the thought. It wasn't the way he planned on dying. Gonna go out like Butch and Sundance in a blaze of glory, he thought to himself. Not buried alive beneath a candy shop with some son of a bitch's ghost for company.

"Sam!" he called to his brother, taking the tone of voice he'd learned from their father, the one that snapped you back to attention, wherever your mind may have wandered. "We're not getting trapped down here, I promise. I need you to focus. We need to finish before we run out of time. Now, are you gonna help me or what?"

Dean's words seemed to penetrate Sam's brain, pulling him back to the present, and he turned back to his brother and the task at hand.

Sam thought it would have been so much easier to burn the body where it was, but the room was too small and the heat needed would turn it into an oven. If they got trapped down there in that kind of heat and smoke, it would be a death trap. The irony didn't escape Sam that it would be just like being trapped in the fiery pit all over again. He and Dean had discussed the plan beforehand and had agreed it would be better to move the body and burn it elsewhere, but if they missed even so much as a tooth, their efforts would be in vain.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "I'm good," he reassured his brother, though he felt a bit shaky and his head was pounding painfully.

Dean studied his brother skeptically a moment and then thrust the partially full trash bag at him. "Hold the bag," he instructed as he took up another armful of bones and debris. "The first thing I'm doing when we're done is taking a long, hot shower." And the second is getting laid, he thought to himself. Or drunk. Or both. "Where's the goddamned shovel?" he asked, irritated.

"It's..." Sam grabbed hold of the trash bag and glanced upwards again, getting that look on his face he always had when he'd been worried he was going to catch hell for pissing his father off. "I left it up there," he admitted, guiltily.

Dean glanced at his brother, scrutinizing him in the dim light. It wasn't like Sam to make a mistake and it sure as hell wasn't like him to be scared. It worried Dean, but he had no time to think on it right now. If they lived, he'd have plenty of time to think about it later.

"Don't worry about it," Dean reassured his brother. "Bastard's been down here a while. Mostly just a bag of bones. I just don't wanna miss anything." Thank God, he thought. Nothing worse than a rotting corpse to ruin a nice breakfast.

Sam watched while Dean shoved what remained of the dead man's body into the bag. When his brother was done, he straightened and wiped a grimy hand across his brow to staunch the sweat. "Time to take out the trash, Sammy. You ready?"

Sam nodded his head at his brother, a reply dying on his lips as he felt a cold chill warning him they weren't alone.

"Sh*t..." Dean muttered, feeling that same chill, grabbing the shotgun he'd left leaning against the wall in a corner of the small space and checking to make sure it was still loaded. "Grab the bag and get outta here! I've got your back."

Sam frowned at his brother, looking sad suddenly. "Dean..." he called to get his attention and nodded his head to indicate there was someone or something behind his brother's back.

Dean spun around, lifting the shotgun to his shoulder, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger, but instead of facing a haggard-looking man bent on murder, he found a little girl. The same girl who'd helped him and Katt escape a few days earlier, the same set of curly pigtails, the same cherubic face, and Dean felt something tear at his heart, knowing she had once been one of the killer's victims and was now a ghost herself.

He lowered the shotgun and watched as she held out her tiny hand and uncurled chubby fingers to reveal what looked like a small bone. "He's coming," she warned, her eyes meeting Dean's with a look of infinite sadness.

Even without the warning, Dean knew they didn't have much time. There was no time for questions, no time to ask how she'd died, where she was buried, if she wanted peace. No time to tell her how sorry he was that he couldn't have helped her, but maybe in a way, he was helping her now. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, just a puff of vaporous breath, like on a cold winter's day.

"Dean..." Sam's voice broke the silence, sounding urgent. "We need to get out of here now."

Dean leaned forward to pluck the bone from the little girl's hand. She looked no more than maybe five or six years old. He wasn't sure if she could help them or not, but it was worth a try. She'd helped him once before. "We need some time. Can you give us some time?" he asked as he plucked the fragment from the girl's hand. If not for her, they would have left it behind and all their efforts would have been in vain.

She said nothing but only smiled at Dean, disappearing into a wisp of smoky mist, like she'd never been there at all.

"What kind of monster kills a little girl?" Dean mused quietly, his chest aching with sadness. It wasn't the first time he'd asked that question and probably wouldn't be the last. He had no answer and he knew Sam didn't either. They'd saved dozens of kids in their lives, but it was always the ones they couldn't save that stayed with Dean most.

Dean shoved the thoughts away for now - there would be time enough for them later - and shoved the small fragment into his jeans pocket, bent over to pick up the flashlight, and nodded to Sam, who shouldered the bag of bones and started back on up the ladder.

"Drop the bag," the ghost warned, materializing behind Dean, ethereal hands on the chains around his throat.

Sam set the bag containing the ghost's bodily remains on the floor and spread his hands in supplication, darting a glance at Dean, knowing they were running out of time. "Just let him go, and we'll be on our way. We'll have Katt close the shop and leave you here to rest in peace."

Sam's entreaty was met with laughter. "You misunderstand me, boy. I could care less about the shop. What I want is the girl."

Dean's lips moved, silently forming the word no, his face strained, as he rattled the chains in a last futile attempt to break free.

"Fine," Sam agreed, ready to promise the ghost anything to free Dean. They could come back another day and finish him off. It didn't have to be today. "Just let my brother go."

The ghost laughed again and tightened his grip on the chains, and Sam realized no matter what he said or did, the ghost had no intentions of letting Dean go. He watched as Dean's eyes closed and his face slackened, his body going limp, no longer struggling. And that was when all hell broke loose.

Sam shuddered as he felt a chill, and he realized they were no longer alone. Shadowy forms were slowly materializing and forming a circle around Dean and the ghost. Sam felt a ghostly presence at his side, a small hand reaching for his, and he looked down to find a little girl standing beside him, the same little girl who'd helped them find the last fragment of the killer's remains.

"Noooo!" a voice shrieked, and Sam turned back to find several ethereal figures pulling the ghost away from his brother.

Sam rushed forward to untangle Dean from the chains, lying his brother down on the cold, stone floor, memories flooding his mind of losing Dean one too many times before. "Dean!" he called, pressing his fingers against his brother's neck to make sure he was still alive.

"Go," the little girl told him, pointing a finger at the stairs. Without hesitation, Sam hoisted his brother over his shoulder and carried him from the cellar, leaving the ghosts behind to deal with one of their own.

As it happened, Sam didn't have to go far. The killer's remains, as well as the rest of their gear, had been deposited near the front door. All he had to do was grab it and run. It was almost too easy, but it hadn't been easy so far. If not for the help of the victims' ghosts, they both might have been killed.

Sam slung the man's remains over one shoulder, Dean's duffel over the other, the shotgun in one hand. He paused for a moment near the door, peering into the shop, wondering what was going on in some ethereal place that he couldn't see or hear. It was quiet, almost too quiet. He felt he should say something, let them know how grateful he was for their help.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. He and Dean had hunted things all their lives. Saving people, hunting things, the family business... Dean's words. It was a rare thing when someone helped them in return and even rarer when that someone was something they normally hunted.

"Thanks," Sam said quietly to whoever or whatever might be listening before turning on a heel and exiting the building to rejoin his brother outside and finish what they came there to do - burn the bastard's bones and put an end to the Bon Bon Ghost once and for all.