THE ROAD SO FAR...

The last time the Winchesters saw Leila Connors, she was falling off a bridge. Dean has believed more and more as the months went by that it was his fault entirely. Sam and Dean met up with Connie Fairborough, who had some information on Leila that shocked them.

Gabriel and Castiel got Leila to say yes to hosting Saint Dymphna, a decision all of them regret. In order to get Saint Dymphna out of Leila, Gabriel wounded his vessel and is now slowly turning human unless Castiel can find a way to stop his leaking grace.

Saint Dymphna has found a new host, a young Irish girl who was close to suicide. The host is still alive, which doesn't bode well for the hunters who need Saint Dymphna dead if they want to save the world.

Having received a German Shepherd for Hanukkah from Gabriel, Leila has finally celebrated the holiday in a place that felt like home, a place that felt right.

NOW...

At the dining table in their Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, Dean Winchester snored loudly. A bottle of beer was still in his hand, only a quarter full. Sam leaned against the doorframe, eyebrows knitting with worry. Their friend, Charlie, stood with Sam, worry dressing her face as well.

"I haven't seen him this depressed, and for this long since he came back from Hell and was having nightmares through the night," Sam's voice was quiet, worried he'd wake the sleeping bear in front of him.

"I'd hate to say it, Sam," Charlie spoke softly, more worried about Sam's reaction than waking Dean up. "But you can't force him to heal. He has to find that on his own."

Sam sighed, "I can't just sit here and let my brother suffer. He still thinks it's his fault, after everyone telling him it wasn't."

Charlie shrugged, "That's how Dean is." Charlie looked at Sam, looked at the worry that creased his face. Stubble lined his jaw, bags grew under his eyes—she'd never seen him look so tired. Charlie pursed her lips, "That's how you both are, in case you didn't know."

Sam side-glanced at Charlie, but his attention immediately went back to Dean. "I don't know how to make things better, Charlie. Dean always knows what to do if it's me, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing when it's him."

"There's not a lot you can do," Charlie replied. "It's up to him to find his way out. Only Dean can decide when Dean is healed. You can't decide for him."

"He's been like this for months. Drinking more, not even making it to his bed when he's ready to pass out. This is one of the only times he's actually been sleeping when I found him," Sam said. "Don't get me wrong, Dean's been bad before, I 've just never seen him this bad. Ever since we went and saw Connie Fairborough, it's like..."

"He has faith she's alive?" Charlie questioned. "Faith isn't a bad thing to have, Sam. What if Connie was right?"

"I'm not worried about if she was right," Sam said, looking down at the ground. "I'm worried about if she was wrong. That Dean's got faith when all we did was talk to some town crazy and she just made things worse."

"You said she knew you two, like, right away. Doesn't that mean something?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "She could've been a demon, or an angel, or a shapeshifter. There's no number to the people that would know us just from seeing our faces, Charlie. I don't know if I believe that she was a psychic like she claimed she was."

"There are people who can see other dimensions," Charlie said. "You know, I saw a medium once just so I could talk to my uncle—he was an alcoholic, his liver didn't stand a chance—"

"Is there a point to this?"

"That medium knew more about my uncle than I knew, Sam. She told me things that she never would have known unless my uncle had told her, and how could he do that beyond the grave unless she could really see him, you know?" Charlie answered, sighing softly as she looked back to Dean. "Maybe Connie Fairborough was telling the truth. Maybe the kid—"

"Leila," Sam said softly, like the name itself scared him. "Her name is—was Leila."

"But maybe she's alive, Sam," Charlie replied. "You said you never found a body, didn't you?"

"She fell off a bridge into a river," Sam said. His voice was hollow and emotionless. Like he'd spent these last months desensitizing himself from the event that happened, because he'd lost too many tears thinking about it. "There's no way she survived that, Charlie. And I lost too many days trying to tell myself there was a way. That maybe she was still alive. But it's not possible."

Sam walked away from where Dean snored, Charlie following close behind. The two walked into the main room, where every lore book known to man sat on tidy shelves surrounding the walls.

"It's not a bad thing to hold onto hope," Charlie said, as Sam pulled books from shelves like he'd memorized their positions. "You don't have to give it up, but you also don't have to let it consume you."

"Dean's already let it consume him, someone here has to be logical," Sam snapped, slamming the books he'd pulled onto the long table in the middle of the room. "I can't just pray for false hope, Charlie. That's never gotten us anywhere. And if Dean's still down the rabbit hole..." Sam sighed, putting his head in his hands.

"Sam," Charlie spoke clearly, pulling out the chair beside him and sitting down. Hand rested on Sam's broad shoulder, her fingers trembled like he might crumble to dust if she pressed too hard. "Look, I can't imagine what it's like feeling responsible for something like this, but I feel like you need to hear that it's not your fault. People die everyday. Maybe it was her turn; and that's if she's not already alive."

"She's not," Sam replied, his voice breaking. "She can't be."

"Damn it, Sam, you don't know that!" Charlie exclaimed, standing up from her chair as she slammed her hands on the table, making Sam jump. "I've tried to be reasonable with you, but you won't listen. When the hell did you become so... disinterested? Your job is to save people, to bring people hope. It's not to just sit here in your stolen bunker like some depressed Chewbacca believing that the world is against you!"

"Depressed Chewbacca, I like it. Suits you, Sammy," a deep voice said in the direction Charlie and Sam had come from.

"Dean?" Sam asked.

"Morning," Dean sipped coffee from his favorite mug—Sam figured it was likely mixed with whisky, given Dean's chipper attitude. Dean walked down the stairs to where Sam and Charlie sat, ruffling Charlie's hair. "Hey, kiddo."

"Dean," Charlie replied, looking at the older Winchester. "How are you feeling?"

Dean sat down, the grin never leaving his face, "Peachy freakin' keen."

Sam cleared his throat, "When did you go to bed last night?"

"You know, Dad," Dean replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "It was just about none of your damn business o'clock."

Sam sighed, "Dean—"

"Sammy," Dean said, looking at his younger brother, "I'm fine. You can stop worrying about me, alright?"

"I just don't think it's healthy to—" Sam started, but was once again cut off by Dean.

"I'm fine," Dean insisted. "Really. Do we have a case today?"

"I haven't even turned on my computer yet," Sam answered. "And I don't think the newspaper got here yet."

"I'll go check."

Before Sam had a chance to protest, Dean rose from his seat and walked up the flight of stairs that led to their front door, coffee still in hand. Sam sighed, looking at Charlie. His frustrated glance read, You see what I mean? Charlie shook her head softly, lips pulling to the side of her face. You can't do anything about it, her look reminded him—though it could have also been saying don't be a depressed Chewbacca again.

Dean placed his hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly. Normally, he had his gun drawn when he did so, just in case of demons or any other creature that wanted to kill the Winchesters—which, admittedly, was a lot of them—but that day, he hadn't bothered. Swinging the door open, the coffee mug slipped from his hand, smashing at his feet. Dean froze in place. Not because the newspaper headline read Deaths in Minnesota, Bodies Non-Identifiable. Not because the billowing wind was causing goosebumps to prickle on his bare arms, and his black t-shirt wasn't doing the chill any favours. It wasn't even because Dean, when dropping his mug, had spilled hot coffee on his hand and it was burning.

Dean froze in place because he was face-to-face with a ghost.

The ghost had familiar green eyes that Dean had last seen with tears in them. Blonde hair that was free of tangles, thrown into a bun that was slightly too loose and beginning to let strays fall. Pale cheeks, slender arms—slender everything—but not as slender as Dean had remembered, and he prayed that meant good things. The ghost was hardly transparent, it wasn't flickering like any self-respecting spectre would. Why the hell wasn't it flickering? She's dead. The ghost's hand was raised in a fist, likely about to knock on the Winchester's front door—no ghost did that. No ghost drove maroon Buick Special Deluxe's, and no ghost kept German Shepherd's in their back seat, either.

Dean's stomach shot upwards to his throat. He felt suffocated, like someone was holding a pillow over his face and he didn't even have the energy left to struggle against the force. Dean had seen ghosts before—he wanted to keep telling himself it was a ghost, but he was beginning to realize it wasn't. The Celtic knot necklace he wore around his neck felt heavier, weighing him down. It burned against his chest, reminding him that she couldn't be here.

But there she was.

Dean could barely think of what to say. His mind was blank, but somehow it was also a flurry of words—thoughts and questions, wondering how the hell she could be standing in front of him when he watched her die. He had to have been dreaming, it had been months of searching to no avail. They hadn't even found her body. Wouldn't she have tried to find them in the time she was gone?

"Kid..." Dean's voice cracked as he tried to withhold what he knew were bound to be sobs. "You're... You're alive?"

"Mostly," Leila answered, tears shining in her eyes. Dean couldn't take it anymore, he hugged Leila as tight as he could—if only to make sure it was really her standing in front of him. Leila hugged him back, both letting their stray tears fall. Leila spoke softly, "Hi, Dean."

"What the hell happened to you?" Dean asked, his voice barely reaching higher than a whisper. It was all he could manage, unless he wanted to release his held back sobs. And he wasn't doing that in front of Leila, because he didn't need her worrying about him. He could feel Leila's tears on his chest, soaking through his shirt. Still, he held on.

"It's a long story."

*****

[ A.N. ] Merry Christmas, everyone. Here we are, first chapter of the last entry in Leila's journey. How are we feeling? Happy? Sad? Simply relieved that Dean finally knows she's okay? I'm on that last one, I have to admit. But, as the music for this chapter states, it's the end of the world as we know it. I hope you'll accompany me on this trip, one last time.

I can't wait for this journey to unravel, I have so much planned for you guys and I can't thank you enough for keeping up with this wild ride. This one's to you, cheers. Comment on what you thought, and vote + fan if you enjoyed. More to come soon, stay safe, warriors.

- Thalia