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Chapter Text

He hurt everywhere. It wasn't the physical wounds: the couple of cracked ribs, the cuts and bruises – that one pretty deep gash across his lower back bleeding all over the scratchy grass. Truth was he'd gotten off easy and he knew it. Because it was Amara, and she couldn't hurt him any more than he could hurt her. Not really.

No, those weren't the real aches. The true pain was deeper than torn skin or muscle or bone. It was in his soul, whatever was left of it after all the years. His very being hurt.

Sam was dead. He was sure of it. The kid hadn't moved in far too long, and the amount of blood gathering under him was damning. His back was to him, lying on his side with his head awkwardly angled to form a dam against the growing puddle of red. Maybe it was better that way. Dean didn't think he could survive seeing Sam's lifeless eyes one more time in his life.

Cas was as good as dead too, if he was even in there anymore. Dean had realized too late that they went into this suicide mission without any proof that their friend was alive. Just went on the word of the freaking devil and a God he expected less from than the King of Hell. He hadn't heard from Cas in….well, too long. Damn it, he should have at least made Lucifer let him surface before all of this went down. Let them say their goodbyes or whatever. Let him ask Cas why. Why had he said yes to the Devil.

Now the angel (angels, plural? God, he hoped plural) was writhing on his side, quaking in a pain Dean couldn't see. Shaking fingers were pressed against his shredded stomach in an attempt to staunch the tidal flow of blood and organs and light that was pure Grace. It was a losing battle and they both knew it.

Another tally on the scoreboard of friends and family dead and gone (at least they'd take the son of a bitch devil down with them this time).

Then there was Amara. She was losing too; he could feel it. And he goddamn hated himself for it, but it was part of the ache. She was going to die. God was going to kill her this time, because she would never let him seal her away again. The pain that thought caused was nothing physical.

Damn it, he had gone into this knowing she had to die. They'd gone to the cemetery (and why was it always a friggin' cemetery?) knowing full well they were gonna take her down or die trying. And here they were. And it hurt. It hurt in so many ways.

"Dean."

He blinked, dragging his eyes away from the Darkness. It was harder than he wanted to admit.

Cas was staring at him, all blue eyes, ashen skin, and dripping blood. Dean blinked again. He shifted, trying to move for the first time since he had hit the ground hard enough to crack those ribs. That was Cas staring at him. He couldn't say how he knew – didn't care anyway. That desperate, sad, guilty, longing gaze was his Cas. Not even Lucifer could fake those eyes.

The apology swimming in them fucking hurt. He wanted to tell him it was okay (it really wasn't), but he was so damn tired. Cloth shifted over grass as the angel dragged himself forward. He left behind blood and organs and grace. Dean wanted to tell him to stop.

What was the point?

The progress was painstaking. The angel inched towards him in a pathetic one-armed army crawl, his other hand holding his stomach together as he grabbed at soil and grass and pulled. Dean knew it had to be excruciating. His best friend was only killing himself faster. That should mean something: make him feel something. But everything was numb.

When Castiel got close enough, Dean reached out and closed his hand around the angel's wrist. Blue eyes locked onto his.

"Time," he rasped out, body shaking. "There's still t-time, Dean."

Dean didn't know what he meant. The words were gritted, heavy and laced with the end of the world. He was pretty sure Cas was wrong: they didn't have any time left. The angel sure didn't. Those eyes, which Dean once swore could look into his very soul (and, yeah, angel, so they probably could), were now losing the light that fed them. That glow was a weak, dribbled trail seeping into the earth. Shit, Dean didn't even know if it was Cas or Lucifer fertilizing the planet.

He should have cared more about that than he did. He should have felt….something.

Dean swallowed, even as he sensed Amara rallying her strength for one more – one last – strike. Part of him, even now, yearned to save her. Part of him was pissed. His brother was dead. His best friend was bleeding out in front of him. His soul was aching for a woman hell-bent on destroying the damn universe. The rest of him was just tired.

"Dean."

Cas was moving again, this time with purpose. He was leaving more of himself behind in his urgency. Dean wanted to tell him to stop or there'd be nothing left. The words stuck in his throat when he met the angel's gaze. It was still Cas in there (and he had not panicked at the sudden thought that it might not be). Those eyes were still laced with all the hurt and wrong that Cas had been for…well, years, now.

Except now there was something else. There was a determination – a fierceness – that Dean hadn't seen since the apocalypse. Through gritted teeth, Cas crawled on his torn belly. His grip inched up Dean's arm with every pained move until fingers finally, finally, drug into the edges of a scar that had never faded.

Something – and Dean didn't even know how to describe it other than bright – flared throughout his entire being and he seized with it. It flooded everything that he was to the brim and every inch of his body tensed at its suddenness. It didn't hurt, not really. It was just so much.

He felt more than heard the fighting pause. Amara's confusion and the silence of halted blades were distant things. Castiel's hand had found his mark and Dean's world narrowed to that hand on his arm, their profound bond, and those blue eyes.

"Cas?"

It sounded like a prayer and a blasphemy. A whisper and a scream, breathless and sharp, all in one go. Had he even said it all, or was he just imagining it? Dean was just as empty, just as numb, as he had been a second ago, and yet now he was also fucking overflowing, too.

What was left of him, what hadn't disappeared in this blaring white supernova forming in his chest, was already backpedaling. No way was he spending his final moments having a goddamn mental chick-flick moment with an Angel of the Lord. A one-sided chick-flick, even. No friggin' way.

When the overwhelming warmth flared into a fire, Dean found he no longer cared if his manliness had gone full rainbow sparkles and glitter because what the hell, Cas!

The angel's eyes were lit by a determination only the Righteous Man had ever known, and it was the only thing he could see anymore. They glowed with the pale blue of Castiel's life force: all of it that he had left. His skin was lit by an undercurrent of white. Light spilled from around clenched teeth. There was a plan there; Dean could see it in those eyes before he lost them to the brightness.

A Hail Mary, the last act of a fucked up play, and Dean knew right then that he wasn't gonna like the ending.

"Good luck, Dean."

Fingers pressed to his forehead, smearing blood and gore and grace. They left a gaping torso unattended, open to spill liquid light onto the grave below. Dean wanted to cry out, to tell him to stop, to ask why, what he was thinking, what he was doing-

Someone – a woman – screamed. Heat flooded him and it was too much and then he was screaming too. The grip on his arm was fucking piercing and Jesus Christ, Cas must be trying to claw his way into his entire being through one god damn handprint. The world spun and warped, and his stomach was somewhere near his throat and possibly inside out and holy shit, he was going to die.

And then there was only darkness.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Road So Far (This Time Around)

Season 1: Chapter 1

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Reality returned to him with all the force of an eighteen-wheeler. He sat bolt-upright with a sharp exhale, a tearing in his throat, and a pounding heart. He heaved and gasped for air as though he'd just finished running a marathon, yet his muscles were not strained. His lungs were not pushed past capacity. His veins were empty of the adrenaline that usually accompanied an impromptu sprint in his chosen career.

"Dean!"

Where was he? What happened? He was definitely amped for a fight, but no fight presented itself. Caught up with the pounding of his heart, he frantically scanned his surroundings. There was nothing but the quiet interior of the impala and the empty backroad beyond the windshield. So what had woken him?

"Dean!"

He whipped his head to the right (and damn, whiplash) to focus on his younger brother, who was looking at him with wide, worried eyes. Of course it was Sammy, sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, probably woken up with half a heart attack from whatever nightmare Dean had been having while they camped out on the side of the road in Podunk-fucking-nowhere.

Like always.

Dean's breath hitched at the thought because no, not like always, not in a really long time. Because now they had the bunker and their own freaking bedrooms with actual beds, and they had a home and a dungeon and a war room.

And Sam was looking at him like he was crazy and, hell, maybe he was because his brother was wearing the face of a fucking twelve year old.

Okay, maybe not a twelve year old, but still a kid. Like a twenty-something, college-aged, douchebag, chess-club nerdery, going-to-law-school, kid face. And holy shit, wait a second, hold up, what the hell had Cas done to him?

Shit, Cas!

He spun around the best he could in the Impala, looking around them and then craning his neck to check the back seat. As if the angel could be hanging out in the backseat waiting to pop up with jazz hands and a cheesy 'Surprise!'

Dean really didn't have time to examine his sanity right now, so he chose to ignore the odd visual. He'd blame it on the blood loss. Which he was no longer suffering from, apparently. He patted himself down, checking for the hurts he knew he'd been feeling not five minutes ago. Nothing.

With sudden realization crashing down hard, he reached up and grabbed the rear view mirror to adjust it until he was staring at himself. He froze at the wide-eyed person looking back at him. Fuck, had he ever actually looked that young? He couldn't help it – he ran a hand down his face in amazement, pulled at the tight skin lacking wrinkles and scars. Hell, he was practically a kid himself.

He was damn gorgeous, that's what he was.

"Dean!"

Sammy was still calling his name, although it sounded like panic was giving way to exasperation. Dean turned to him, eyes wide and hand still pinching at his mouth and cheek.

"…Huh?"

Sam made bitchface #7 ("Really, Dean? Really?") and stared at him expectantly. When he didn't move, his brother blew out a breath of frustrated air. "You done checking yourself out?"

Dean snatched his hand away and his cheek snapped back into place with a wet little pop. He had not been checking himself out. It wasn't every day you lost like ten years, is all. Speaking of years, he glanced around again. He really needed to figure out where he was (most importantly, when), but his eyes kept drifting back to Sam.

He looked so damn young. So...light. It was freaky.

Logically, Dean knew what this was. He'd had enough experience with angelic DeLoreans to know this was real. But even with four trips under his belt, he couldn't get his head quite around this one.

He'd never been zapped back into a younger version of himself, for starters. The other times had been well before he'd even had a body to get zapped into. To suddenly have years of aches and pains vanish – from old scars and mended bones to plain old aging crap like arthritis. It was all gone, replaced with a vigor and freshness he hadn't felt in so long that he'd forgotten what being young was even like.

And he was steadfastly not thinking about the yawning hole in his chest, ever present since he'd been yanked out of hell. Always there, always aching. Or, at least, it had been, until about five minutes ago. For the first time in more than half a decade (and it was really so much fucking more than six years; it was decades upon decades of torturing souls on the rack and the apocalypse and purgatory and the mark and the Darkness), Dean now felt whole. There was a warmth in his chest that was trying to fill his entire body and he couldn't remember if that was normal. It had been so long since normal was even on the table.

Was this what it was like to time travel back to a point when you still existed? Did you overwrite your past self? Shit, was he overwriting things now? Dean stopped at the thought. He took in and let out a slow, measured breath. Was he changing the future? Everything they'd been through? Could he?

"There's still time, Dean."

Shit. Shit! Had he meant there was time to fix things? Or was he talking about actual Time, like the proper fucking noun? As in, we can use Time as a desperate last ditch Hail Mary and fix everything. Cas wouldn't have sent him back if it wasn't a possibility.

"Cas," he muttered in a single breath. There was no way. No way the angel had- that he could- Dean looked over at his younger brother (and damn, if that wasn't the most accurate description ever). Sammy was still staring at him, still torn between annoyance and panic. Dean knew that expression, even on a younger model. Panic was winning.

Join the fucking club, he thought. Because it couldn't be. It couldn't. Cas couldn't have sent him back to change….everything. He knew Sammy – he knew him – like he knew himself. Hell, better probably. This was pre-apocalypse Sam. This, this was pre- Dean's death. He knew the difference, could see it in the lack of guilt and self-loathing and just weight in his brother's shoulders: in his gaze.

This….Dean glanced around again. This might even be- But no, it probably wasn't. He spotted a phone sitting on the dash and went for it. He needed to know the date and he needed to know it right fucking now.

"Who's Cass?"

He ignored his brother, not even hearing the question – the several he'd been asking. Instead he fumbled for the device (Jesus Christ, is that a fucking flip phone? You've got to be kidding me) and pried it open. The initial date wasn't helpful, just the month and day. Apparently it was November 1st, which was absolutely terrifying because it definitely hadn't been November fifteen minutes ago. And even though he knew, he knew, what was going on, each piece of proof was still jarring; worse, it didn't rule out what he was dangerously starting to suspect.

It took him a minute to navigate the older technology, but when he finally did, he forgot how to breathe. November 1st, 2005.

Fucking hell. Mother of all mother-fucking, time-jumping, dick ex-angels. Cas sent him back to….to before everything. Everything.

Two thousand and fucking five!

He stared at Sam, who was definitely panicking now, trying to get something (anything) out of his brother. Not that Dean heard any of it. Cas had sent him back to before the apocalypse. Before Hell and his deal. Before….Dean swallowed, looking away from his damn young younger brother who had never looked more innocent.

Before Jess died.

He reached forward and turned the keys in the ignition. Baby lit up like a purring dream and even a time-jumping, panic-inducing, apocalypse-averting epiphany couldn't stop his grin. He wasn't the only hot, young thing on this backroad tonight. She was in drive and flipping a U-turn before he could really think about it. He didn't need to think about it.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam scrambled for his seatbelt while bracing himself on the dash as his body pressed into the door. He looked all kinds of ready to wrestle the wheel away from his questionably-unstable brother. A year or two from now and he wouldn't hesitate.

At this point, though, Dean wasn't even sure the kid had a license (and okay, Sam had learned how to drive when he was nine, but that was so not the point). The little salad-eating giant was gripping the door handle as Dean hit the gas a little harder than strictly necessary. Except he had just been sent hurtling ten years into the past, so 'necessary' could suck it for all he cared. Sammy seemed to disagree, if the white knuckle grip was anything to go by.

God, he was so young (and wimpy! Bitch.)

With gritted teeth, as if he could hear Dean's internal monologue, he ground out, "Where are we going?"

"Back to Stanford." Because that was an easy one. They were going to get far away from whatever hunt he'd dragged his brother back into. Sam was going back to school where Dean would make sure Jess stayed alive and his moose of a brother stayed educated and the two got married and had babies or something. All apple-pie-normal.

Maybe a dog instead of babies. Sam liked dogs. Although Dean would make a kick-ass Uncle if it came to it.

His answer had momentarily shut Sammy up. At least until he pulled bitchface #1 ("What? That doesn't make any sense, Dean. Don't be an idiot.").

"What? That doesn't make any- Dean, what about Dad?"

Dean managed not to jerk the steering wheel or all-out slam the breaks to a grinding halt as his brother's words registered. Instead, he let out the slowest breath he possibly could while still breathing. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Dad was still alive. Dad was still alive. It was 2005: before the crash and the hospital and Azazel (Yellow Eyes. We called him Yellow Eyes) and John's deal and shit. His knuckles tighten on the wheel. Dad was alive.

"I'll…uh," he had to take a moment to clear his throat around the giant fucking lump of Dad is still alive. "I'll find him. Alone," he added hastily, chancing a glance at his brother. "You're going back to school."

Soon as he killed the demon hanging out in Sam's friend (Brad? Think it was Brad). Kill the demon, save Jess, save Sam. No hunting, no demon blood, no dying. No Devil wearing him to the prom and all the crap after that. Piece of pie.

…Except he didn't currently have anything to kill a demon. Craptastic. No demon-killing knife (no Ruby to give it to them yet – and hopefully not ever, if he had anything to say about it), no Colt (shit, when did those vampires kill Elkins? Had it been 2005? Or 2006? What month? Crap, crappity, crap crap. Maybe they should make a detour to Colorado…) And no angel blades (…no Cas, either, despite sending up another half dozen silent prayers.)

Damn it, how had they even made it through the apocalypse the first time around?

An exorcism would have to be good enough. Maybe he could send the ass-hat back to Azazel with a message. Maybe one for Lilith, too. And shit, Lilith. Damn it, this was already making his head hurt. It had all been so long ago – so many crises and bad decisions and ends of the world ago.

"What about the thing killing people in Jericho? The EVP on dad's voicemail?"

Huh?

Jericho. Well, at least he knew where they were now. It sounded familiar. Dean wracked his brain. What had they been hunting when he picked Sam up from school? He vaguely remembered a motel room covered in victims, all male, all killed traveling a backroad. A creepy chick in a white dress and Ring-worthy black hair. Right! Cars, bridges, unfaithful men, and a suicide victim who'd killed her kids.

"The woman in white?" Dean gave a nonchalant wave of his hand, proud of himself for remembering. He could so totally pull this Time thing off. No problem. "I'll take care of her when I come back for Dad."

Sam sputtered. "The woman in- It's a woman in white?"

Okay. Apparently they hadn't known what it was yet. Smooth. Real smooth.

"Dean, how did you-" Sam made a face, part worry, part panic, and part…constipation? Dean wasn't sure what that last one was about. His brother's voice was oddly quiet, though, when he asked, "How did you know that?"

"Uh," the older hunter bobbed his head back and forth looking for something that sounded halfway plausible. "Figured it out? You know, all male victims, died along a road. Probably pulled over to pick up a beautiful, stranded woman. Came to me while I was, uh, sleeping."

Sam was still staring with Constipation Face (maybe that should be added to the list of Bitchfaces. Lucky #11?). So the older Winchester did what he always did best and ignored it, focusing on the road. He was going to have to start stockpiling some better excuses if he was going to slip up this freakin' much.

"Dean," Sammy started slowly, words measured with just barely withheld concern and frustration. "Turn the car back around. We need to find dad."

He thought for all of three seconds before going for gold in the Stupid Things Future Dean has Told Past Sam. "Dad's not in Jericho."

"What? Wh- Then where is he?"

Dean shook his head. "Don't know." He barely managed to hold back the 'don't care'. "But he's not there."

"Dean-"

"Oh come on, Sammy!" He looked over at his brother finally, because this wasn't the Sam he knew, the Sam that had reconciled with Dad. Not yet. This was the kid who wasn't supposed to care about John Winchester – who wanted out of the life. Who ran away to get it. And Dean was trying to honor that this time around, because Sam had been right all along. The further away from Dad they got, the better. And yeah, it hurt like hell to say it, knowing the man was still alive. Knowing he could still be saved.

Maybe if Dean could just find him, warn him about Azazel and all his plans. If he could change Sam's fate this time around, if he could stop the apocalypse, maybe he could save Dad, too.

Hell, who was he kidding?

John Winchester had never been save-able. Dean had too much experience this time around to make the same mistakes. He couldn't save them both, and Sam was more important. The further away from John Winchester and his crusade they got, the better. He wasn't going to let them – let Sam– walk the same bloody road again. Not when he could stop it.

He tightened his grip on the wheel. "Dad's not in some backwater town hunting a woman in white. Or a wendigo, or a ghost, or any other case he can't be bothered with that he'll stick on us just to keep us busy. This is another one of his fucked up missions – send us off hunting while he's busy with Az- with- with the thing that killed mom."

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. He was saying too much, and he hadn't meant to say any of it and shit, shit, shit. He just wanted to get Sam back to school, where he would be safe. Then he could focus on the rest of it.

Damn it, Cas, you couldn't have sent me back one more freaking day? Twenty four more freaking hours and we could have avoided all of this!

Twenty four hours earlier and he would have never pulled Sammy back in. Sam would never have known dad was missing.

His brother was back to staring. Dean twisted his hands around the steering wheel and blew out a measured breath. He was going to have to explain at least some of this. He probably wasn't acting very 'Dean circa 2005'.

"Look, I should have known better, okay? Shouldn't have dragged you into it. I'll find Dad on my own. You wanted out, well you've got it. We'll go back to Stanford, and you're gonna go to that law-school thing. You'll become a fancy lawyer and marry that girl and live happily-friggin-ever-after. Apple pie life, right?"

Okay, so his voice may have cracked at the end there and this was definitely not any better than the last bunch of shit he hadn't meant to say.

Note to self. When stockpile of excuses runs out, it's time to shut up.

Seriously, Cas. Twenty-four fucking hours! Was that so much to ask?

"Stop the car."

Dean heaved a sigh. Damn it, now Samantha was going to go all chick-flick, I-worry-about-you and blah blah blah on him. And he really, really didn't think he could handle that on top of everything else. "Sammy-"

"Dean, stop the damn car!"

He did. He pulled the Impala onto the shoulder and put her in park. It was silent as Sam tried to work out the right words to say. His pinched face told Dean it wasn't an easy battle.

The older hunter tried not to watch his brother (also a losing battle), because it was freaky – so freaky – but it was also so damn good to see Sam without all the pain and the sorrow and the fucking tiredness that had been there since…Well, since he'd gone to get him from Stanford. Since Jess.

"Dean," Sammy got his vocal cords working again and he put on his 'this is serious' face. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Sammy."

"Sam."

Dean almost snorted. Right. He'd forgotten all about that. 'Sammy' was a twelve year old kid, if he recalled (oh, if his brother only new the irony. He freaking was a kid!) So he nodded and said, "Sam." And it wasn't the least bit sarcastic at all. Really, it wasn't.

His brother's eyes narrowed. "You're obviously not okay."

Dean rolled his own, giving his brother a pointed look. "You just told me not to! I'm doing what you said!"

"Yeah, and since when do you listen to me, huh?"

"Since-" Shit, nope, couldn't say that, that hadn't happened yet. "Since-" No, couldn't say that either. Dean huffed in annoyance. He'd forgotten how stubborn and immature and stupid his little brother could be (he really hadn't). "Damn it, Sam, can we just get back on the road?"

"No. Not until you tell me what is going on with you!" Sam waved his hands around as he spoke and Dean allowed himself to be distracted by them rather than focus on his brother's concern and annoyance and, oh right, actual spot-on point.

Because no way was he going to come out with, 'Well, Sammy, I just time traveled back a decade from the brink of the actual end of the world (not those other times, nah, those weren't even close compared to this one), so, yeah, I'm a little different. Astute observation there, Sherlock. But no biggie! I'm just gonna save you and your girlfriend and the whole world and we're all going to be apple pie.'

But Sam was still talking and Dean really needed to get his head in the game. "You were hell bent on finding dad three hours ago."

"Yeah, well, Dad's an asshole." He said it before he could think about it. So much for head in the game.

It's the second time that night that Dean rendered his brother speechless. He ran a hand over his eyes. This wasn't going to be as easy as he fooled himself into thinking. And why should it be? Nothing ever was. He had too much weight himself, too much baggage, to ever pretend that he didn't know what he did. To be what he had once been.

Time for Plan B. Too bad he didn't actually have one (not that he'd had a Plan A, either).

"Look, Sammy- Sam. Dad's not here. And no, I don't know where he is." Which was actually true. He didn't have a clue because they never had figured it out.

"But it doesn't matter," he continued, forcing his brain to focus and think like me ten years ago. "He's never going to stop hunting the thing that killed mom. And obviously, he doesn't want our help doing that."

Sam fell silent, watching his older brother with an unreadable expression. Dean didn't hold his gaze for long. They needed to get back on the road.

"Dean, there's still a woman in white back in Jericho, if that's what's killing those people."

The hunter nods. "I'll take care of it. Soon as I drop you off, I'll come back and gank the bitch." His memory on it was a little hazy, but he was pretty sure the trick had been getting her back into her old house. He could do that solo and not even break a sweat.

"Saving people, hunting things," he added suddenly, the words coming to him from a long ago memory. Dean turned to look at his brother head on. "That's my gig – and I'm good with that. But that's not your life, Sammy. It doesn't have to be and I, uh," he shook his head. No chick-flick moments. "I shouldn't have asked you to come."

Sam was already shaking his head full of ridiculously long hair and giving him those sympathetic puppy dog eyes. "You needed help, Dean. And I want to help. Let's find Dad."

He shook his head. "Not necessary, Sammy. Sam."

His brother let out a huff of air. "At least let me help with the woman in white."

"Nope. I got this."

Sam sat back in his seat in defeat. He was still eyeing Dean worryingly, but it looked like he was out of things to say. So Dean pulled back on the road and headed for Stanford, his mind running through plans to save Jess.

-o-o-o-

They were halfway to Stanford (back the way they had come just yesterday, though it'd been significantly longer in Dean's case) when Sam decided he wasn't out of things to say, after all.

"Who's Cass?"

This time the car did swerve dangerously as Dean's knee-jerk reaction sent them careening onto the dirt shoulder of the I-49. He corrected quickly and expertly (with a mental apology to his Baby for the rough treatment) but Sam's knuckles were once more white on the dashboard and Dean's heart was pounding a mile a minute.

He rubbed absently at the hammering in his chest and decided that even if he could answer honestly, he didn't want to talk about it. About the blood fertilizing the graveyard, the outpouring of grace seeping into the earth, or the apology in blue eyes that belonged to his friend for the first time in weeks. The back of his brother's head, unmoving and soaking up a pool of red. The finality of that last 'Good luck, Dean.'

Things that would never happen again, so they didn't matter. They didn't exist anymore.

Instead, he willed his heart to calm and responded casually, "He's no one."

Not casually enough, however, for Sam to miss the choice of pronoun, identifying him as someone. Eventually, he stopped staring at his brother, stopped waiting for him to say more, and stared out the windshield instead.

Dean knew that Sam was far from letting it go and was only biding his time. He hoped of all the many things his brother could latch onto in this situation, of all the slip-ups he could dig his mental claws into and refuse to give up, Cas would be one he let slide.

-o-o-o-

It was nearly five am when they pulled up outside of Sam's apartment. It was still dark, the sun not due to rise for another two hours, and Sam was yawning as he pulled his gargantuan frame out of the passenger side. Slumped shoulders and a hung head marked the giant's form as he headed for the front door, digging into his pocket for the key.

Dean darted up beside him as soon as he realized where his brother was headed. "Uh, hey, why don't you get your bag from the trunk? I'll get the door."

Sam scrunched his face up in his classic 'I'm tired and you're not making any sense' expression (bitchface #8). "Dude, if Jess wakes up to you tripping around the house in the dark, she'll freak."

He slid the key into the lock and turned it. Dean tensed beside him, desperately trying to think up a way to keep Sam out of the house long enough for him to clear it. Truth was, he didn't know exactly when Brad (Brody? Brian? Shit.) had stalked out Jess. From the little he'd gleamed of the conversation he was too busy being locked in the bathroom to hear, the demon could have held her for longer than just the night they returned.

How had the douchebag even known when they were coming back first time around? He'd killed her on the anniversary of their mom's death. But would he have done that even if they hadn't returned in time, or if they'd come back early? How long had he been waiting for them to return - had he had Jess tied up all weekend? Did he have her tied up in there now? Dean couldn't remember anything from the police report – it wasn't like she'd been missing for the two or so days they'd been gone. Had the demon been watching for their return, instead?

Surreptitiously, the hunter scanned the rest of the neighborhood. They were surrounded by other apartments, probably occupied by sleeping students. The windows were dark: most had curtains drawn or shades pulled. The ones that didn't were ominous, gaping mouths of impenetrable black that stared at them, surrounded them, hiding any number of eyes. Dean glared at them each in turn, daring one to have a demon begging for his throat to be cut.

He shifted restlessly and focused back on his brother as the lock shifted, the door slid open, and Sam disappeared in to the darkness beyond. If he noticed how close his brother was sticking as they walked through the house practically in tandem, Sam didn't say anything. Dean checked each room, hand wrapped around the hilt of the gun tucked in the back of his jeans. It wouldn't do much against a demon, but it was better than being weaponless.

The Sasquatch stopped abruptly, causing a near nose-dive of older brother into younger. Dean pulled back at the last second, feeling the brush of Sam's shirt against the tip of his face. He glared at the man, but was immediately on guard.

"What is it?"

Sam gave him a funny look. "My bedroom, Dean. You going to follow me in there, too?"

Dean scoffed, making a face of his own. He backed off, acting insulted just long enough for his brother to shake his head and disappear into the dark room. The door shut behind him with a click and Dean tried to ignore his twitch of nerves.

The demon probably wasn't in the bedroom. His gut wasn't screaming at him, no inherent danger he could sense. But that wasn't solid proof, and Jess had died in the bedroom.

The door made a soft scraping nose over the carpet as he pushed it open. The room beyond was pretty dark, but he could make out the silhouette of a single occupant in the bed, lit by a line of yellow light coming from beneath a door to the left. Bathroom.

The light flickered off and the door opened a second later. Dean slid back outside, turning around to survey the rest of the apartment.

Okay, probably no demon, then. He didn't smell sulfur (although with a demon as undercover as Brad/Brian/Brett, he probably wouldn't). Good. That was…good. That meant he had time to plan. He headed back out to the car, throwing open the trunk to grab Sam's bag. The kid's laptop was in there. He'd have to make good use of that once Sasquatch passed out.

He quickly popped the hidden panel and snagged a couple of weapons, a container of salt, and two canteens of water that would be turned holy five minutes after Sam conked out. He was on guard duty tonight, even if his brother wouldn't know it.

Dean went back into the house to find Sam standing in the middle of the living room, having turned on a small table lamp next to the sofa. He tossed him the go-bag, wrapping the strap of his own weapon-filled duffle over his shoulder to hide the obvious shape of the sawed-off inside.

"So, er," Sam mumbled as he distractedly set his bag down on the chair next to him, looking every bit the twenty-two year old kid he was. "I was hoping- that is… um, you probably shouldn't drive more tonight without some sleep, Dean."

The older hunter raised his eyebrows. Part of him wanted to smirk – oh, part of him wanted to laugh. Poor Sammy, beating around the bush trying to figure out how to suggest he stay the night without actually saying it. 2005 Dean would have been insulted – would have insisted he was fine to keep on driving. Would have done so just to prove it, too.

"Do you have a place to crash?"

Dean grinned, slinging the bag off his shoulder to land carelessly on the sofa. "What? Your couch too good for me?"

Sam blinked in surprise, jaw dropping a bit and this time Dean let out a chuckle. Poor kid. The younger Winchester was already back-pedaling, claiming it was fine, and he could stay as long as he wanted, and maybe they could get breakfast or something the next morning (Sam code for 'don't you dare leave without saying goodbye, Dean!')

He was smiling – all dopey, happy, innocent Sammy – when he said he'd love for Dean to meet Jess. Properly, this time.

The smirk slid off Dean's face as he remembered that this wasn't a family reunion; he had people to save, a job to do. And he wouldn't be sticking around afterwards. He was going to have to keep his distance from Sammy, too, if he wanted to keep him out this time. No Uncle Dean in this future, either.

A memory flashed through his mind of a Sam who barely tolerated him, who barely knew him, sitting across the table at a family dinner with his pretty wife by his side. A forgotten dream tainted with the bitter aftertaste of a Djinn.

Dean didn't trust his mouth to form words through the giant lump in his throat. So he nodded and smiled and hoped it didn't look as fake as it felt. Judging by Sam's laugh and quick assurance ('It won't be that bad, Dean. You'll love her,') he hadn't been very successful.

He waited until the kid was out – trying not to hear the mumbled words of reassurance to a half-asleep Jess and waiting for the light to go out – before he pulled the shotgun out of his duffle. He purified both of the canteens with a rosary and a mumbled prayer. After a quick lightbulb moment, he did so again with several glasses he stole and filled from the kitchen sink, placing them strategically throughout the house.

He slipped an anti-possession amulet on the second he realized his chest was missing the very reassuring ink of his tattoo. He thought about sneaking into the bedroom and getting one around Sam and Jess, but figured there was no way he'd pull that off (or talk his way out when Sam caught him). So he settled on painting devils traps on the undersides of what rugs he could find, putting one directly outside the bedroom door.

With the windows strategically re-salted (as unnoticeably as possible) and a few symbols added to the pre-existing carvings in the doorframes (that-a-boy, Sammy), Dean settled onto the couch with the laptop, a sawed-off, and a canteen.

He spent the next several hours researching everything he could on Sam's demonic best friend, stubbornly not thinking about a lonely future without his brother by his side.

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 2

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It was well after the sun came up that Sam stumbled out of his bedroom to find his brother chilling on the sofa with his laptop open, typing away.  He was wearing a fresh shirt and had made himself right at home, apparently.  Which was…odd, Sam thought.  Pretty domestic for his very nomadic older brother.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Dean answered his questioning glance at the laptop offhandedly and hardly apologetic. 

“Dude, you better not be watching porn.”

His older brother smirked and winked at him.  Sam made a disgusted noise but was grinning as he ventured into the kitchen for some orange juice.  He’d forgotten what being around his brother was like.  He didn’t realize how much he had missed him these last four years.

“Hey, uh, so,” Dean cleared his throat from the living room, which meant he had done something Sam wasn’t gonna like.  “This guy kept trying to message you like an hour ago.”

Sam ducked his head back into the living room.  “Guy?”

If Dean hadn’t been so focused on lying convincingly, he might have cracked a pretty good joke on that one.  Sam was so easy; ten years hadn’t changed that.  As it was, he just nodded and pointed to the computer in his lap.  “Brad or something?”

“Brady?”

“Yeah!” Dean said with maybe a little too much enthusiasm.  Because trying to find that asshole through the school website had been a bitch without knowing his actual name.  “Uh, I mean yeah.  So I answered.”

Sam automatically groaned.

“Hey, in my defense,” he raised his hands, “you’re the one who left your laptop out.”

“It wasn’t out, it was in my bag,” the giant answered without missing a beat, pointing to the go-bag still sitting on the chair and looking more than a bit rummaged through.  “And it’s password protected, Dean.”

The older hunger gave his most winning smile.  He may not know computers, but he knew Sammy.

“Ugh, whatever.”  His moose of a brother rolled his eyes and retreated back into the kitchen.  “How badly did you traumatize him?”

Dean balked.  “I did not traumatize him.  Guy called me out pretty quickly, actually.”

Which had all been part of Dean’s plan.  Well, the part about messaging the guy hadn’t exactly been one of the steps, but the rest totally was.  He’d still been trying to figure out the asshat’s name when a chat popped up in the bottom right corner of the screen from one, SexyStanfordDr1084.

Ass.  Hole.

Not one to pass up the opportunity (and feeling pretty certain it was Brady on the other line, considering his first line was ‘You back in town, bro?’  Bro?  Really?  It was 2005, for fuck’s sake), Dean had set about making a poor imitation of Sam.  Brady had called him on it pretty quickly, and he’d revealed himself as Sammy’s older brother, in town visiting and concerned for his widdle brother’s virtue while all alone in the big scary world of frats and co-eds.

The demonic scumbag had eaten it up, no doubt chomping at the bit (and foaming at the mouth) for an opportunity to get close to Dean Winchester.  Even pre-seals, he was pretty sure the troops down south were talking about the war to come.  Especially the guy tasked as his brother’s keeper.  Azazel would have given him the basics, at least.

“Of course he did,” Sam was saying in response to Brady’s so called ‘intelligence’ at noticing it wasn’t the high IQ future-lawyer Winchester he’d been talking to.  Yeah.  Real genius, that one.  “He’s pre-med, Dean.  He’s not an idiot.”

It took all of the older Winchester’s willpower not to respond with something that would most likely get him into trouble.

“Bitch.”  Well, maybe just a little bit of trouble. 

“Jerk.”

Sam walked back in with a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee.  He set the latter on the low table in front of Dean, next to the abandoned laptop.  “So?”

“So I’m meeting him for a beer.”

Sam pulled Bitchface #4 (“Stay out of my stuff, Dean!”)

“Dude.”

“What?” Dean had the decency to at least act insulted.  “I can’t get to know your friends?”

Sam leveled a serious look at him, eyes narrowed and suspicion fully bared.  “Is that what you’re doing?”

Dean scoffed.  “I’m just checking up on my baby brother. Making sure you haven’t gotten yourself into trouble in the scary world of higher education.” 

Sam actually had gotten into trouble, sarcasm aside.  Though with the plot those bastards downstairs were cooking up, it wasn’t exactly Sammy’s fault he hadn’t caught on.  Even the most seasoned hunter wouldn’t have seen it coming.  Dean certainly hadn’t.

His brother, however, didn’t know any of that and currently looked seconds away from an explosion.  “Dean, none of my friends are-” he cast a glance to the bedroom door, where faint sounds of running water could be heard, “-monsters!  They’re just normal college kids living normal lives!”

The words made Dean’s stomach twist.  If only.

“Then there’s nothing to bitch about,” he said instead, putting on his best ‘I’m older and that’s that’ face.  “Just two dudes grabbing a beer.”

“Fine,” his brother snapped.  “But Dean, I swear if you-”

“Relax, Samantha.  It’s just a beer and some friendly, normal conversation.”

Sam still looked ready to punch him.

“So.”  He stood up with a grin.  “We grabbing breakfast, or what?”

-o-o-o-

Sam hadn’t been wrong.  It was hard not to like Jess.  She was beautiful, glowing with love for his brother, witty and smart, and had a biting tongue that gave back as good as she got.   Dean liked her already, and they’d only just had breakfast. 

Dean hadn’t been wrong either.  She was way out of Sam’s league.  It was ridiculously obvious how head over heels the kid was for her.  Dean wasn’t sure if he was closer to tearing up or throwing up.

Of course, since Winchesters did neither, he was perfectly fine.

Brunch that morning was possibly the most surreal experience of Dean’s life, which was saying something.  Seeing his brother happy, in love, and perfectly normal only sharpened his conviction to change what was coming.  His brother deserved this.  And it didn’t take much to see Jess deserved life.

By the end of the meal, Dean had every confidence that he could do this, for them.  He was going to change the future. 

-o-o-o-

Sam tried to invite himself to the Dean-Meets-Brady shindig no less than three times.  It got to the point where Dean finally told him to go get his own friend.  Sam made the ultimate bitchface at that and Jess dragged him off to go lick his wounds in the safety of their very demon-proofed apartment. 

When Brady showed up at the off-campus bar, Dean was already waiting for him against the trunk of the Impala.  He hadn’t (wouldn’t?  How did tenses even work when you were from the future?) changed much in five years, and Dean instantly recognized him with his douchebag hair and rows of perfect punch-worthy teeth.

The guy gave an award-winning smile (seriously, how much would it throw off his plan if he just socked the asshole in the mouth right now?) and stuck his hand out as he approached.  Dean shook it with a grin of his own.

It was only too easy in the end.  He’d forgotten how simple hunting had been when the demons still underestimated the Winchester boys.  Okay, they’d never really stopped underestimating them, but this was a whole other level of naïve.

He pulled out two beers from a cooler in the back seat, popped their tops, and handed one to Brady with a line about always having a few on hand for the road.

“Thought you wouldn’t mind a freebie.”

The demon grinned like an idiot (which he was) and clinked the neck of his bottle to Dean’s.  Then it was as simple as sitting back and waiting for the smoke and sizzling flesh, burned by a mouthful of holy watered-down beer.  Getting him into the devil-trap-lined trunk was as easy as pop, shove, slam.

Now he was driving out of Palo Alto and towards the hills that lined the west side of the peninsula.  There were a ton of state parks and preservations that way that would guarantee an empty stretch of woods where he could interrogate and exorcise the son-of-a-bitch without risk.  He’d been able to scope it all out using Sammy’s laptop that morning.  He’d settled on the ridgeline when he realized he wouldn’t have time to sneak out and prep a devil’s trap even if he did find a good abandoned building for it.  Sam had been pretty insistent they spend the day touring Stanford and the surrounding area. 

He had ignored the twist in his gut all day as Sam proudly showed off his perfectly normal life while Dean walked beside him, planning how to kill his brother’s best friend. 

Popping the trunk revealed a red-faced, spitting Brady.  The demon surged forward, arms outstretched for Dean’s throat.  The devils trap caught him before he ever got close and threw him back into the trunk.

“Sit tight, princess.  It’ll be your turn in just a second.”

He was reaching into the trunk for the spray paint (carefully avoiding the still violent demon) when a set of headlights rounded the dirt road and lit up the wooded sanctuary he’d chosen for the exorcism.

Swearing, he slammed the trunk (feeling just a little satisfied when he heard the metal connect with the demon’s skull on its way down) and turned, hiding the shotgun and holy water behind him in a single motion.  The car coming down the path careened to a stop a good ten feet away from the Impala.  Dean swore even louder when the door swung open and Sam of all people climbed out, gun of his own aimed at Dean.

“Sammy, what the hell-”

“Let him go.”  The gun was perfectly level and Dean made a face at it.

There was suddenly banging on the trunk, frantic and desperate.  “Sam?  Sam, help!  Please, he’s crazy!”

“Shut it!” Dean barked over his shoulder.  His shotgun remained on the trunk behind him, not that he’d ever pull it on his brother.

Sam tightened his hand around the grip of his handgun, heedless of being the only one aiming his weapon in this showdown.  “Let him out,” he repeated and Dean could tell he was seriously considering shooting him.

Oh, come on!  This guy could not be that good a friend.

“I don’t know what you are,” Sam continued, raising his arms and setting his face in determination and anger, “but let Brady go.”

“Sammy,” Dean groaned, throwing his arms out to the sides, “You don’t tell the monster you don’t know what it is!  You might has well wave around a neon sign screaming ‘I don’t know how to kill you!’”

Sam frowned at him, but the gun didn’t waiver. His determination did, though: Dean could see it in his eyes.  Sam wasn’t a hundred percent sure Dean wasn’t Dean.  Even with his last comment, the kid was still sharp enough to know his brother wasn’t the same guy he had been two days ago.

“Open the trunk.  Now.”

Dean leveled his brother with a sober, if slightly annoyed look.  Reaching behind him, he turned the key and the trunk opened with a click.  Brady pushed it the rest of the way open, sitting up with crocodile tears and a fantastic look of panic. 

Fucking demons.

“S-Sam, please.  Please, you’re brother’s crazy!”

There was blood pouring down the side of his face, courtesy of the underside of the trunk shutting on his stupidly perfect hair.  Unfortunately, it added to the damsel in distress act he had going on.  His hands were raised in a half placating, half begging pose, pleading to the younger brother to save him as he blinked blood out of his wide, traumatized eyes.

“Please,” Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes at the drama act.  “Sammy, he’s a demon.”

Sam jerked in surprise.  His eyes narrowed, looking quickly between his (possibly fake) brother and his (now possibly possessed) best friend.  The gun stayed trained on Dean, but the intent to actually use it seemed further off now. 

“A- a what?” the faker stuttered in shock, looking between the two hunters.  “I’m not a- are you insane?”

Dean’s eyes never left his brother as he dumped the canister of holy water over his shoulder.

Sam went a few dozen shades whiter as Brady screamed and hissed and smoked, clawing at his steaming face.  He bared his teeth at Dean, hissing like a wild animal.  Sam’s gun arm waivered, lowering almost to his waist before retraining it on the writhing demon.

“Dean?” he asked, voice weak and unsettled, begging for answers to his life being turned completely upside down.  Dean stepped away from the trunk, coming closer to his brother.  He kept the shotgun down and broadcasted his movements clearly, in case Sam still had any doubt as to what he was. 

“Sorry, man.  I didn’t want you to know.”

Sam screwed up his face in a tight, squinted look of hurt that Dean knew well.  It was the expression Sammy wore each and every time he felt betrayed by his brother.  “What?”

The words were breathless, and Dean battled with his instinct to look away. 

“Is this why you came here?” Sam asked.  His gun remained trained on Brady, but the anger was directed at his brother now.  “The hunt in Jericho – Dad missing?  Was that all just some excuse to get me out of Stanford so you could kill my possessed best friend without having to tell me?  What the hell, Dean!”

“That’s not-” Dean cut off, shaking his head angrily.  “Dad is missing, but that has nothing to do with this!  I didn’t know in advance, okay?  I just found out!”

Sam’s anger drained away from him as he stared at his brother.  He lowered the gun, knowing it wouldn’t work for a demonic possession anyway.  “How?  How did you-”

Dean shrugged.  “I gave him a beer laced with holy water.  It’s, uh, a trick I learned from dad.  Wasn’t expecting anything to come of it – I was just running all the normal tests.”

Brady suddenly laughed, pulling their attention back to him.  He was sitting, shoulders slumped, face red and splotchy from the water, ruse abandoned.  “Bullshit.    You were ready for me.  I don’t know how you knew, but you knew.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at the demon.  “Shut it.”

Sam looked to his brother, full blown puppy dog eyes begging him to make the world make sense again.  At least, that’s what the big brother in Dean saw whenever Sammy stared at him like that.

“Later, Sammy.”

Silence reigned in the clearing, as if the stupid crickets wanted to hear what happened next.  Dean’s finger twitched against the shotgun’s trigger.

“It’s Sam,” the younger Winchester corrected calmly and Dean could see the change take over his brother.  The way he tensed his forehead, smoothing away any wrinkles on his brow, screaming ‘I know when you’re lying to me.’  The set of his shoulders that vowed, ‘We’re not done talking about this.’  The tick in his jaw when he was pissed as hell, but firmly resolved. 

His little brother had just fallen into hunter mode, something that hadn’t happened the first time around until after Jess’s death. 

Somehow, it felt like failure to Dean: a sucker punch to the gut.  He didn’t know why – Jess was still alive, and he was still hell bent on keeping it that way.  But it felt like he was already behind the curve, too far to catch up.  Like Sammy had already set his mind to hunting, just like the first time after finding his girlfriend roasted on the ceiling. 

Which was ridiculous, because none of it had happened yet – they were stopping it from happening – and all Sam had done was pull a face.  Nothing had changed.  They’d still kill Brady, Jess would be safe and Sam could go back to apple pie. 

So Dean nodded his head, conceded to ‘Sam’ over ‘Sammy’ and in doing so apparently agreed that they’d talk about it later.  A promise he would deal with equally later.

Sam turned back to Brady, all business now.  Whatever he’d needed to do to tuck away the shock and betrayal, he’d done it.  “How long?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking to me now?” Brady asked, revealing a mouth full of bloody teeth as he smiled.  “I hadn’t realized the Lifetime moment had ended.”

Sam didn’t even blink.  Brady sighed dramatically, “Come on, Sammy-boy.  You already know the answer.  Think really hard.”

The younger hunter’s jaw clenched, the veins popping with the harsh treatment.  “Sophomore year, Thanksgiving break.”

Brady broke out in the widest smile yet.  “Ah, the booze, bitches, and drugs.  Those were the good days.  Remember how much time you spent trying to get me back on the right track?”  The demon laughed, a gurgling sound that must have hurt like hell with his ruined throat.  “You were such a good friend, Sam.”

“Why?” he ground out, fist clenching, gun hand shaking. “That was two years ago!  What the hell is your end game?”

Before Brady could answer, Sam stiffened and lost any color he’d regained.  His breath when he finally released it shook.  “Jess.”

“Ding ding ding!”

Sam glanced at Dean briefly, his voice devastatingly quiet when he talked.  “He introduced me to Jess.  A-after….After sophomore year.”  His hands were shaking at his side. “Is….Is she?  She’s not.  She can’t be.”

Brady’s grin grew feral as he finished Sam’s train of thought.  “Of course she is-”

“She’s not.”

Both men looked at Dean, who’d answered so matter-of-factly you’d have thought they were talking about stock market stats.  He glared at the demon before nodding to his brother reassuringly.  “I checked.  She’s human.”      

Which was a total lie, and now Dean was sort of wondering if he should check, but was pretty sure he didn’t need to.   First of all, she’d be stuck on a devil-trapped rug back in the apartment right now (which, while amusing to picture, would likely not have gone unnoticed by the two hunters currently staying with her).  Second, there was no way Future-Brady would have let that opportunity for back-stabbing bragging pass.  He would have rubbed it in Sam’s face that he’d fallen for a demon (again).  That she’d been one the whole time.  That she’d never actually loved him.

No, he was just feeding off what Sam had given him. 

The demon was watching Dean with narrowed, curious eyes.  He met the stare head on.  Sam was still reeling with relief that his girlfriend wasn’t a lying denizen of Hell. 

“Why would you introduce me to her?” he asked quietly at first, voice confused, before he rounded angrily on the demon.   Sam wasn’t stupid.  On the contrary, Dean always thought he was a minor genius, especially when it came to Sherlocking the truth out of situations.  He’d make a hell of a lawyer.  “Why do any of this?  What the hell are you playing at?” 

Brady laughed, looking between the brothers.  “So you don’t know?  You’re our favorite, Sammy-boy.  We’ve got big plans for you.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.”  Dean emptied the rest of the canteen over Brady’s head and slammed the trunk shut amid the sound of sizzling skin and screaming.  A sickening crack filled the air and the trunk bounced back open after failing to click shut.  Brady was howling as he pulled four crooked, limp fingers against his chest. 

“Dean!” Sam barked, taking a step towards them.  “He’s still in there!  It’s still Brady’s body.”

Oh.  Right.  Oops?

The hunter grimaced, shutting the trunk a tad more gently this time.  In his defense, Future-Brady had been long dead by the time they ganked the son of a bitch (and even if he hadn’t been, killing the man after almost a decade of possession was a freaking mercy).  Besides, he hadn’t meant to close the trunk on his fingers.  But he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it, either. 

Dean bent down, scooping up the can of spray paint he’d dropped at the start of all this.  As he straightened, Sam blocked him with his arm outstretched to the side.  The older hunter quirked an eyebrow in question.

His younger brother held out a sliver knife that looked way too familiar.  Dean reached for his hip where he kept his blade, only to find it missing.  Sammy was still holding it out to him, a challenging look in his eye.  Dean glanced down at the kid’s gun, thankfully pointed at the ground, but with a firm finger resting on the trigger.

“Shouldn’t have called you rusty,” he quipped with a grin as he grabbed the knife.  He rolled up one sleeve and pressed the blade to his arm, drawing a faint red line that swelled with blood.  The drops of water on his shirt and skin, collateral from Brady’s squirming, sealed the deal on him not being a demon.  That and the silver were probably enough reassurance for his brother.

Sam relaxed fractionally, grip loosening on the gun.  “Dean, what is going on?  And no more lies.  He said you knew what he was – that you were ready for him.  How?  And what did he mean, they’ve got plans for me?”

Dean pressed the can of spray paint into his brother’s chest to avoid answering any of those questions that he really didn’t have answers to.  Damn it, this was supposed to be simple.  Kill Brady, save Jess, keep Sam out of it.

Why the hell did Sam have to follow him?

Because life’s a bitch, that’s why.

Of course it wouldn’t just be easy.  Why had he thought it would be?  He was a Winchester.  They didn’t get easy.

“Look, we’ll get answers, okay?  But we still need to exorcise the son of a bitch, and we’re not doing it in the friggin’ Impala.  So go paint a devils trap and let’s get this done.”

Sam looked ready to argue, but Dean leveled a serious stare.  “Go.  I’ll explain later, alright?”

“Dean-” his brother’s voice was a warning.  He wouldn’t take being put off again.

“I will, okay?  Go!”

Sam gave a grim nod, but still didn’t move.  Dean watched him expectantly, finally raising his hands in a clear ‘What now?’ gesture.  His brother’s brow furled in that way that said he didn’t understand something, but didn’t want to admit it.  Which was kind of fair in this situation, considering there was a metric shit ton he didn’t know and Dean was kind of turning his life on end. 

Finally, Sam mumbled, “What’s a devils trap?”

Son of a bitch.  Seriously.  How the hell had they lived long enough to make it to the end of the world? 

Dean swiped the spray paint out of his brother’s hand.  He pointed at the ground with his free hand.  “Stay.” 

He moved a good ten feet from the car to where the pine needles and loose dirt gave way to harder packed ground.  Crouching, he began the large circle and five point star.  Sam stayed by the trunk as instructed (and not pouting at all about it), but craned his neck to try and catch the lines his brother was painting over the ground. 

By the time he finished, Sam was standing next to the outer edge, memorizing the ancient symbols with the same fire in his eyes he got when handed a new puzzle.

“Dude.”  Dean threw his hands out as he straightened and caught sight of his brother.  He gestured emphatically at the abandoned car. 

Sam just shrugged and Dean dropped his arms, glaring.  His brother’s eyes were already back on the trap.  “Does this really work?”

“What do you think’s keeping him in the trunk?”

The younger hunter’s eyes doubled in size.  “You spray painted the Impala?”

Dean pulled a bitchface of his own.  Of course Sam would be incredulous this time.  Little shit had been the one to blemish Baby’s gorgeous finish first time around without so much as blinking.  Nobody put Baby in a devil-trapped corner but Dean.  “It’s in the trunk, first of all.  And second, it’s an addition.  It makes her even more badass.”

Sam looked skeptical, shaking his head as they made their way back towards the car.  “If it’s painted on the trunk, how are we going to get him to that one?” he asked, nodding back the way they came.  There was at least a ten foot difference, and the placement of trees limited their ability to back the Impala up to it.  He may not be very familiar with demonic possession, but he was fairly sure the thing in Brady wouldn’t need half that distance to overpower them.

“Just wait.”  Dean grinned.  One advantage to being from the future was he knew all the cool tricks.  And this time he didn’t have to own up to learning most of them from fucking Crowley. 

Chapter Text

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Season 1:  Chapter 3

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With an unceremonious shove, Dean ripped the hood off of Brady as the demon stumbled into the devils trap.  It wasn’t so much a hood as it was an old white t-shirt he’d ripped up and tied back together.  He’d drawn the devils trap with a sharpie while waiting at the bar.  Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t as nifty looking as the one Crowley had bagged him with, looking like a burlap sack he found in a re-enactment of Children of the Corn, but his version was improvised.  Which made it even more badass, in his opinion.

Brady managed to stay on his feet, letting out a low chuckle with his back to the two brothers.  He titled his head to the sky and laughed.  “Oh Dean,” he turned around with a smile, “you’re a lot smarter than we thought.  When did that happen?”         

“Bite me.”

Sammy was watching him again, switching between him and his former best friend.  The look in his eye was suspicious, but not of what Dean might be.  He’d proven himself human enough for the hunter.  No, Sam was sure his brother knew more than he was saying, and he’d get it out of him one way or another. 

Damn it, why couldn’t he have just stayed out of it.

Because he’s a Winchester.

Another memory surfaced, of a week spent in a suit and tie, starving on rabbit food smoothies and hunting a crazy ass ghost of a long dead boss with one, Sam Wesson.

‘Hunting is in your blood.  It’s what you are.’

Friggin’ Zachariah.  And friggin’ Time.  Well screw them both.  Sam wasn’t going to be a hunter, if it killed Dean.

“You know, you’re real lucky, Sammy.”  Brady was talking again, this time smiling gently – kindly – at the younger of the two.  The demon turned to Dean, tilting his head mockingly.  “Maybe luckier than even your brother realizes.  He spared you quite the nasty shock.”

“What are you talking about?”  Sam turned to his brother.  “Dean, what’s he mean?”

The older Winchester considered shutting the demon up: exorcising him before he could no doubt taunt and stab at his brother over what he had been about to do.  But Sam wouldn’t just let this go.  It was cruel to let his little brother hear the truth from a demon, but maybe it would be better coming from something he could take his anger out on.

“I’m talking about that fine piece of ass you have waiting for you back at home.”

Sam straightened, shoulders going rigid.  His hands fisted involuntarily, shaking with fear and anger equally. 

Brady showed his pearly whites.  “And how I was going to pin her to the ceiling and burn her to a crisp.”

The younger hunter when white.  Brady laughed.

“That’s right, Sammy-Boy.  Just like mommy dearest.”

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He looked desperately to Dean, searching for the voice of reason that said none of this was real.  One look at his older brother and his world came crashing down.

“This- This is-”

Brady tilted his head back and howled with laughter.  “Surprise!  I’m the monster that killed your whore mother!”

“No, he isn’t,” Dean said at the same time.

The silence in the clearing would have been damn near comical if it was any other situation.  Two sets of wide eyes turned to Dean, asking for answers he wasn’t going to give either of them. 

Brady was the first to recover.  His eyes were narrow slits as he stared down the man who all their sources had said was the hothead of the two.  The one who would react the most to everything he was saying.

“You think I didn’t pin the bitch to the ceiling, Dean?  You think I didn’t gut Mommy Winchester right above little Sammy’s crib?  I watched her burn and I’m gonna do the same thing to Jess-”

Dean took a menacing step forward, cocking the shotgun.  His hand twitched to wrap around an angel blade and kill this son of a bitch. 

“The thing that killed our mom had yellow eyes.  You gonna pull out those pale babies?  Or are you gonna shut the hell up, cuz I know you don’t got shit to show.”

Brady’s mouth slowly shut, a glare settling over his features.  His eyes remained human, and Dean took it for the win it was.  

He was beyond ready to waste this son of a bitch before he could run his mouth any more, but he needed to let it play out.  No way Sam would ever let it go if he didn’t learn all he could now.  The only chance Dean had of getting his brother to drop this whole thing was if he felt it was over.  Closure and all that crap.

“You’re right,” Brady’s voice brought Dean back around. 

The man was shrugging his shoulders, but his eyes had a glint of new strategy in them.  Guess he was of the brainy persuasion of demon rather than the brawn.  Probably had to be at least halfway intelligent to land an espionage gig watching over the future vessel of Lucifer himself. 

Dean tightened his grip on his gun. 

“I’m not the one who put the hit out on your mommy.  Or Jess.  But I’m still the one who’s gonna light her up.”

He directed his last words at Sam, who looked like he was half a step away from throwing himself into the devils trap and beating Brady with his bare hands.  Dean reached out and gripped his shoulder.  Sam flinched, but didn’t pull away.

Dean turned to the demon.  “Maybe that was the plan, but not anymore.  You’re going right back to Hell.”

The answering grin would have put Hannibal Lecter to shame.

“You think this ends with me, Dean-O?  Oh, no.  My boss isn’t going to stop.  Go ahead, send me back.  It won’t save her, and it won’t save you.”  He turned his burning eyes to Sam.  “My kind is never going to stop.  Jess is going to burn.  She’ll be dead by the end of the week and it’s going to be all your fault, Sammy!”

Dean grabbed his brother as he let out an animalistic roar and charged the circle.  He threw him back, yelling to back off – that playing to his game wouldn’t do anything but give him the satisfaction.  Not to mention possibly break the trap and set him free.

Sam stalked off, fuming.  He paced back and forth by the impala, fighting to cool off and clearly losing if the menacing glares he sent their way every thirty seconds were any indication.

Dean looked back at Brady.  The demon just stood, smirking like the fucking asshole he was.  The hunter looked away, focusing his anger and frustration at an object he was less likely to pummel into the ground. 

Son of a bitch.  Son of a bitch!

He honestly hadn’t thought it.  Kill Brady, save Jess.  That had been the equation and this was his solution.  Simple, two step problem. Only Azazel had ordered Jess killed to get Sam back into hunting.  He wouldn’t stop until his ‘favorite’ had the motivation needed to follow a road of blood and death.  Right now, Jess was still their best bet at getting Sam on the path to become a cold, revenge-filled hunter. 

She would never be safe unless he took that road. 

Why hadn’t he realized it?  Why had he thought anything would be this damn simple?  It was the voice in the back of his head that did it, that pushed him over the edge.  It whispered, ‘Well, at least you won’t be alone anymore.  Sammy’ll be right back by your side.  Straight to the end of the world.’ 

It was the last straw on his already precariously balanced emotional state.

Dean let out a primal scream and slammed the butt of his shotgun into the nearest tree.  He did it again and again and again, but nothing got better.

“Dean!  Dean, stop!” A giant’s hand gripped the barrel of the gun: another pressed against his chest.  His brother’s face swam into view, concerned and angry and still so fucking devastated.

Dean shoved away from him, giving up the shotgun to his brother’s tense grip and raising his hands in a show of calm.  “Okay,” he muttered.  “Okay.”

He gave himself a second.  Told himself to get it back under control.  He could lose it later, right now they had a job to do.  Dean straightened his jacket and stalked back towards the grinning son of a bitch.  Sam followed.

“Get whatever you want out of him.”  He stopped at the edge of the circle, leveling the demon with his most intimidating glare.  It was a look shaped in the depths of Hell. It made even demons take a step back.  “We’re sending this son of a bitch back where he came from.”

Sam spared a second to watch his brother, a dark man he wasn’t entirely sure he recognized, before focusing his attention solely on the thing sitting in his best friend’s body.

Brady didn’t say much.  At least nothing of consequence.  He spouted shit about having plans for Sammy, that he was their favorite, that Jess would never be safe again.  He never shut up, actually, but he didn’t say anything either.

Dean kept half an ear out for lies, setting them straight when he could without giving too much away.  There were surprisingly few.

He doubted the low-level minion even knew the real play at this point.  Nothing came up alluding to Lucifer or Lilith.  Brady kept Azazel’s name to himself, always calling him Boss, and anything else he knew of any importance was danced around with the dexterity of an experienced liar. 

Dean knew he could have gotten it out of him.  Even without Ruby’s knife or an angel blade, he could have made the demon sing.  He had a weapon time couldn’t take away from him.  But he was pretty sure he should keep that whole ‘I can torture information out of just about anyone or thing’ to himself this time around.

Sam was already looking at him like he was considering having him institutionalized.  No need to give the kid more fuel.

Eventually, frustrated, Sam called it.  His shoulders were tense, his hands still fisted and shaking, but his face was stone when he started for the car to get his laptop and search for an exorcism.  Dean couldn’t help it.  He stopped his brother with a pat to the chest, winked at the giant, and started reciting the Latin he knew by heart.

The shock on Sam’s face was totally worth it.

The demon inhabiting Brady went kicking and screaming, but eventually collapsed in a choking, hacking explosion of black smoke.  The plume was dragged into the ground and sent, presumably, back to the pits of Hell.

Good fucking riddance.

The kid that was actually Brady was, shockingly, still alive.  With a few broken fingers, a bit of skull trauma, and probably screwed in the head seven ways from Sunday, but alive. 

“We should get him to a hospital,” Sam said quietly, carrying the unconscious body back to the Impala.

Dean just nodded, not asking what story they were going to give.  He knew this couldn’t be one of their drop and runs, like they usually did with civilians.  This was Sam’s friend.  He listened with half an ear as Sam told the ER nurses of Brady’s past drug abuse, of how he found him half alive on campus, suspecting a relapse and maybe a mugging gone bad.  He waited until his brother sunk into the hard, plastic chairs in the waiting room to say anything at all.

“Sam, we gotta go.”

The kid looked up at him with those puppy dog eyes and Dean hated himself a little more.  “What?”  He looked around at the other friends and family in states of distress, all waiting to hear about a loved one.  “We can’t just leave.”

Yeah, it would be suspicious as hell, not that that’s what Sam meant.  But they didn’t have the time or luxury to stick around.

“Sam.”

His brother met his gaze again and swallowed as the reality of what had happened set it.

“I…We can’t stay here, can we?”

Dean knew he wasn’t talking about the hospital.  He shook his head.  “That demon will have gotten word to Yellow Eyes by now.  Or will soon.”

Sam was up in the blink of an eye.  “Jess.”

Dean put a comforting hand to his brother’s chest.  “Is in a demon proofed house at the moment.  I, uh, made some additions.”

Sam looked relieved, but only so much.  She may have been safe, but it was momentary.  They would still have to leave.  He didn’t know where they would go.  Where could they run to that demons couldn’t follow?  His mind flew through every place and dozens of plans, but he didn’t have the answers, and that scared him to his core.

The two waited until the nurses at the front desk were looking away, and then took off.  Dean kept it under the speed limit, but just barely as they headed back to the apartment.

Sam sat in the front seat of the Impala and tried to figure out what the hell he would tell Jess to convince her to leave town with them without freaking her completely out.  He wasn’t coming up with much, and panic was twisting his chest into knots. 

As they hit a red light that Dean was sorely tempted to run, Sam quietly said, “She’s never going to be safe, Dean.  We can’t- we can’t run forever.”

Dean rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel impatiently.  “We’ll take her to Bobby’s.  She’ll be safe in the panic room.  And we’ll go from there.”

Sam’s brow furled and he finally looked at his brother.  “Bobby has a panic room?”

God damn crap on a cracker.  Dean ran a hand down his face.  He was going to make a list of what they did and didn’t know in 2005.  First thing, soon as they were at Bobby’s.  That’s what he was gonna do.  Make a god damn list.

Instead, he forced a smirk onto his face and answered cockily, “Yeah, Sammy, Bobby has a panic room.  See what happens when you run off to get an education?  You miss learning the good stuff.”

“Jerk,” Sam said on impulse, rolling his eyes.  “And it’s Sam.” 

“Right.  Sam.” Dean nodded.  The light turned green and he hit the gas.  “Bitch.”

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Jess took it pretty well.  At least, as well as a civilian with no clue as to what was going on could take her boyfriend coming home in a half panic, packing their bags, and insisting they had to leave.  The usual questions came up: Does this have something to do with your father?  Your brother?  Sam, what is going on?  What aren’t you telling me?

For Sam’s part, it was clear he didn’t know what to tell her, so he didn’t tell her anything.  He said they were in danger, that they needed to leave, and he’d explain on the way. 

All in all, they were in and out in under forty-five minutes.  Dean kept guard at the front door (“Is that- is that a shotgun?  Sam, why does your brother have a gun!”) and escorted the two with their bags back to the Impala.  Nothing came out of the shadows after them.  He kept a careful eye on the rear view mirror for the first three hours of their drive. 

Either Azazel had gotten slow, or he was waiting this out to see what Sam’s play would be. 

The younger Winchester sat in the front seat, a flask of holy water in the side door and a sawed-off under his feet.  Despite the urge to keep it in his lap, ready at a moment’s notice, there was no need to freak Jess out more by calling attention to it. 

Jess was in the backseat, body language screaming ‘freaked out’ but facial expression surprisingly controlled.  Her eyes kept darting between her boyfriend, his legs that were stretched out over a gun (yes, she had noticed that little fun fact, thank you very much), and his brother.

She knew Sam had issues with his family, especially the family business.  She had always thought he had a controlling father, possibly abusive, who couldn’t let his son live his own life.  Privately, she’d been proud of him for getting away from that, even if she hadn’t known him back when he’d made that choice.  Now, staring at the duel hardened expressions of both brothers and the freaking guns within reach of both, she was wondering just how off base she’d been.

Sam had come home in a surprisingly somber variety of panic and Dean had been on them the entire time like a professional bodyguard. 

Just what the hell was his family business?

“Sam,” she began softly, worriedly.  She glanced at Dean – the wild card in all of this.  “I think you need to explain everything to me.  Right now.”

Her boyfriend looked over his shoulder at her.  He looked wrecked.  She knew this man – she loved this man.  And whatever was happening was hurting him.  But telling her was hurting him more.

“Jess, I- I can’t,” he said, keeping her gaze.  His brown eyes were wide, begging her to believe him.  To forgive him.

“Sam.”

Dean’s voice called both their attentions.  There was a silent conversation there Jess didn’t understand, try as she might.  But Sam obviously spoke the language.

“Dean, no.” He shook his head and leaned towards his brother, lowering his voice as if she wasn’t less than a foot away and hearing every word.  “Are you kidding me?  Family rule number one: we do what we do and we shut up about it!”

Oh yeah.  This was boding so well.

“What are you going to do?” Dean asked mockingly.  “You going to lock her in the panic room without an explanation?  Sammy, it’s in the basement.  It looks like a friggin’ war bunker out of a horror movie.  She’s going to think we’re serial killers.”

And there it was.  She had been trying really, really hard to stay away from that particular train of thought.  Not that Dean, with his scary glares, militaristic guarding, and fucking shotgun, had been much help in that department.

“I am right here, you know!” she practically yelled.  And if her voice went a few octaves higher than she intended and possibly edged towards the screechy levels of hysteria, well, they could both just fuck off about it.

“Jess.”  He was looking at her again, puppy eyes ranked up to full blown ten.

“A demon’s coming for you.”

“Dean!”

“It’s after you to get to Sam.”

“Excuse me?”

Her boyfriend looked ready to punch his brother, who gave him a quick ‘tough luck’ glare. “You can’t hide it forever, Sam.  Eventually you get to the point where the ‘truth is out there’ spiel is the only option left.”

Sam gritted his teeth.  “We weren’t there yet.”

The leather of the steering wheel creaked under Dean’s knuckles.  He didn’t look at his brother again, instead checking the rearview mirror before re-focusing on the road.  “Yeah, well, we will be soon enough.”

Sam glanced in the side mirror, but didn’t see anything behind them.  Not even distant headlights of another car on the road.  His finger itched for the shotgun on the floor, but he resisted.  It would do more harm than good. 

“Somebody want to fill me in?”  Jess was practically shaking in the back seat, but it wasn’t from fear.  “A demon?  Please tell me that’s some screwed up metaphor for something.”

Sam let out a heartbreaking sigh and rubbed his forehead.  “It isn’t.”  He said it with so much defeat in his voice, Jess had half a mind to believe him on the spot.

“Okay,” she worked through slowly, trying to reason out how else the word ‘demon’ could apply.  “Is this, like- Is this some sort of….criminal?  Like a hitman?  Sam, is your family- are you part of the mafia?”

She’d heard of stranger things, and ‘the Demon’ was something she could see the mob naming one of their boogiemen.  Of course, she wasn’t well-read on the subject outside of the occasional movie night, so 1950’s New York was pretty much all that came to mind.  Try as she might, Jess couldn’t picture Sam coming from that sort of environment.

Maybe an ex-con?  Or a serial killer.  Maybe Sam’s family had been put into Witness Protection.  His mom had died when he was a baby.  Maybe she’d been murdered and his dad and brother had testified?  It would explain the current situation, but not so much his hatred of the family business. 

A bark of laughter from Dean and a silencing glare from Sam ended her wild speculation.

“We’re not in the mafia, Jess.”

“We’re hunters.”  Her boyfriend looked once more ready to strangle his brother, who shrugged.  “We chase down supernatural badasses that kill humans.”

Silence reigned in the Impala.  Jess was staring at Dean.  Dean was staring at the open road.  Sam was trying to disappear into his seat.  She had no idea how to respond. 

“Sam?” The whisper was quiet.  Questioning.  Praying.  He flinched, but ultimately gave a defeated sigh.

“It’s true.”

“But…”  She gripped the back of his seat.  “That- That stuff isn’t real.  Sam, you have to know that stuff isn’t real.”

Suddenly the conversation they’d had a few nights ago about Halloween took on an entirely new perspective.

Sam sunk into his seat and closed his eyes.  He wondered miserably if this was the last time he’d talk to Jess as the man she loved, and not the psychotic mental patient with severe psychosis who she had run away from, screaming.

“Sam, you got your ID on you?”

The question, such a non-sequitur to the current tension in the car, startled him out of his misery.  “What?”

“An ID.  Do you have one on you?”

Sam crinkled his nose in confusion.  Dean would have called him out on the bitchface in any other situation.  “Yeah.  Why?”

The impala jerked to the left as Dean hit the brakes, pulling off the highway to make a sharp turn down a dirt side road.  Sam grabbed at the dash to steady himself.  Behind him, Jess’s fingers dug into the edges of his seat.

“Dean?”

His brother didn’t answer, just continued down the dirt road through fields and farmland.  They passed a picturesque farmhouse, white curtains framing every window, backlit with warm yellow light.  They drove for another ten minutes, with Jess in the backseat praying she wasn’t about to find out her boyfriend was a reluctant serial killer, egged on by the anti-religious delusions of his brother.  Or any variation of that nightmare. 

Dean stopped the car as they came to an intersection of another road.  He climbed out and headed for the trunk.  Jess didn’t dare leave the safety of the backseat.  Sam tried to send her a reassuring look (it really didn’t work) before climbing out of the Impala after his brother.

“Dean, what are we doing here?”

He caught the spray paint when it was thrown at him.  Dean shut the trunk, shaking a can of his own as he rounded the back of the car.  In his other hand was a cigar box.

“We’re gonna summon a crossroads demon.”

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 4

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Sam was left speechless as Dean walked past him to the center of the intersection.  His brother set down the cigar box and began painting the same large, five-pointed star and symbols as he had only hours ago in the woods outside Palo Alto.

“We’re- We’re going to what?”  Sam followed, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him up when he didn’t answer.  “What the hell, Dean?”

“You know another way to prove it to her, Sammy?”  He gestured to the car, where Jess was slowly, warily climbing out.  “A crossroads demon is the easiest to summon.”

And possibly the stupidest, but you couldn’t win ‘em all, right?

Jess came to the edge of the nearest star point, staring down at it worriedly.  Absently, she crossed her arms, rubbing her bare skin and trying to ignore the way her hands shook.  If anyone asked, she would have said it was because of the cold. 

Sam went through several different responses, throwing them all out when he couldn’t seem to form the words correctly.  Finally, he threw his arms out to his sides.  “Are you insane?”

His brother didn’t bother answering him.  He just kept painting.  Sam ran his free hand through his hair, tugging at the roots fiercely.  Here they were, out in the middle of nowhere, about to summon a demon to show his girlfriend – the woman he wanted to marry – that monsters were real.  How had this gone downhill so fast?

“How do you even know how to summon one, man?”

Dean finally stopped what he was doing and straightened up with a look that said he was approaching his own limit of crap he could handle in one day.  “Come off it, Sammy- Sam.  You were gone for four years.  Well, I learned shit too.  Now will you paint the damn circle?”

The younger Winchester dropped his gaze. His brother bent back over, finishing off the tail end of a symbol.  Sam glanced at Jess, who was staring at him, pleading with him to see how crazy this was.  He looked away.  She hesitantly retreated to the car.

Maybe this was the easiest way to prove they weren’t crazy.  But he’d wanted to keep all of this from her, and now he was going to put her right in front of it.  Put a demon in front of her.  A being of pure evil – a thing that had vowed to kill her – and they were going to summon one.  Just to prove a point.  This was crazy.

Sam glanced at his brother.  Dean was right: he had been gone for four years.  And he’d gotten rusty.  His best friend had been possessed right under his nose, and he hadn’t noticed.  Hadn’t even suspected.  And what Brady had said. Sam took a shaky breath. 

The way he had described it…

It was just like his dreams.   Just like them.  He’d been having those dreams for days.  Dreams of Jess, on the ceiling.  Of… Of exactly what Brady had described.  Said he would do to her.  And he’d ignored them.  If it wasn’t for Dean, he would have let his best friend murder the love of his life. 

He felt sick.

Not just rusty.  Downright pathetic.  Dad would beat the crap out of him if he could see him now.

But Dean… Dean knew what he was doing.  Clearly, he and dad had been dealing with demons lately.  He knew what was going on.  He knew what to do. 

Sam repeated it to himself like a mantra as he bent down and started to draw a circle to complete the pentagram. 

When they finished the devils trap, Sam grabbed the holy water and his wallet out of the car, glancing hesitantly at Jess.  She’d dug a jacket out of her hastily packed go-bag and wrapped herself in it like a security blanket.  Right now, the car and that jacket were her comfort zone.  They were the only sense of safety, however false, that she had out there in the middle of nowhere, watching her boyfriend and his brother paint occult symbols in the dirt. 

Dean was digging a hole in the center of the pentagram when Sam jogged back over to him.  He held out the cigar box, lifting the lid for Sam to slide his California issued license into.  The older hunter shut the box pretty quickly, but not before his brother caught sight of dirt, some small dried flowers, and what he was pretty sure was an animal bone.

Wonderful.  At least Jess hadn’t seen the contents.  That wouldn’t freak her out at all.

Dean placed the box into the small hole and quickly covered it back up, burying any evidence that it was there.

“Okay,” he muttered, retreating out of the circle with Sam.  The two brothers walked back over to the Impala, where Dean dug into his front pocket and pulled out two necklaces.  Small, coin-like charms dangled from the black cord. 

“Put these on.”  He handed one to each of them.  Sam did so immediately, without question, while Jess ran her thumb over the little sun symbol raised out of cheap metal.  It looked like some two-cent Hollywood prop or costume jewelry you might find at a street fair. 

No way was she feeding Dean’s delusions.

“Jess.” Sam nudged gently, taking the charm from her and sliding it over her head.  “Trust me, okay?”

She really, really wanted to.  But she wasn’t crazy.

Dean was watching the center of the intersection with a hard, waiting stare.  Sam adopted a similar stance and Jess, with no other option and an increasing sense of dread, turned her gaze to it as well.

When a woman in red appeared out of nowhere, Jess reeled.  Sam was immediately there, in front of her, shielding her, wrapping his presence around her like a blanket without ever touching her.  She gripped his arm and knew she was leaving bruises with her fingertips. 

Her brain short-circuited.  The woman – a brunette with perfectly curled hair, done up to the nines in a deep red cocktail dress that fit all her curves sinfully well – must have come out of the fields.  Only, it wasn’t like they were surrounded by fucking corn.  It was all low-laying crop that someone her size, petite as she was, would have had to lie down in.  And neither her dress nor her smooth, dark skin had a fleck of dirt present. 

Jess couldn’t look away.  She’d blinked once and the woman had appeared.  What would happen if she did it again?  Her grip tightened around Sam’s bicep and he reached back with his other hand to grip hers.  She clung to it and every reassuring squeeze he sent her way like a lifeline. 

Was she losing it?  Had they somehow drugged her and this was all a hallucination?  Sam wouldn’t do that to her.  Hypnosis, maybe?   That would explain the woman coming out of nowhere.  Maybe Dean did it with the coin necklace.  Like those old time cartoons, swinging pendulum crap and all that.

Yeah, that’s a lot closer to the ‘sane’ end of the spectrum than a demon.  Let’s go with that.

The woman in the red dress made a ‘tsk’ sound with her tongue, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.  She clasped her hands in front of her, swaying sensually and oozing sex appeal.  “Sam Winchester.” 

The woman’s eyes were locked on her boyfriend and Jess finally had to look away or risk insanity.  Her eyes.  Her eyes were glowing red.  Hypnosis didn’t include hallucination. 

If this was some sort of bad trip, she wanted it to end right now.

The woman walked towards them.  Jess whimpered and Sam stepped fully in front of her. 

Dean cocked his shotgun and the woman suddenly stopped, red eyes widening.  “What the hell is this?”

Jess, unable to ignore this horrible delusion, looked back up.  The woman was frowning at her feet, set right at the edge of the circle of paint.  Her red gaze suddenly vanished, leaving dark brown pupils glaring at the trio with a murderous intent Jess had never seen in another human being.  She didn’t move any closer.

“Insurance.”  It was Dean who answered, unfazed.  He took a step forward and threw something at the woman in red.  She screamed as steam rose from her skin and she stumbled back, away from the spray of water.

Jess looked down at the metal canister in Dean’s hand.  Sam held an identical container.

The woman hissed and bared her teeth like a wild animal.  Her skin was red and blisters were forming, as if the water had been boiling.  Jess looked at the uncapped canister again.  No steam rose from the metal opening.  She looked back at the poor woman’s ruined face and shuddered at the inhuman rage there.

Demon was sounding more and more probable.

“You summoned me!” she screeched, fisting her hands at her sides and stomping a high-heeled foot.  Jess wondered if they’d broken some unspoken rule about summoning things.  It certainly sounded like they had.

“Yup,” Dean answered.  He gave a grin that had no humor in it, and Jess wondered what had happened to the man who had obnoxiously commented on her Smurf sleepwear.  “And now we’re gonna send you back to hell.”

He began to speak, the words foreign but vaguely familiar.  Jess’s mind involuntarily supplied scenes from all those horror movies about possession and hauntings and demons that she’d watched as a teen.  She’d loved them – loved scaring herself and curling up next to a friend or a boy or burrowing under blankets to peak through slatted fingers.  She hadn’t seen one in a while now – not since she’d met a boy who hated Halloween and monster movies with the kind of humorless self-deprecation of one who’d been personally offended by it. 

She could kind of understand why now.

The woman screamed and wreathed and clutched at her choking throat.  She fell to her knees, heaving up black, billowing smoke that defied gravity.  It moved – slithered – as if alive.  It writhed and wretched as it soaked into the ground.  Soon enough, there was nothing left but the unmoving body of a woman in the center of a crossroads and a pagan circle.

Jess was trembling by the time Sam turned around and gathered her into his arms. 

-o-o-o-

Overall, Dean thought Sam’s girlfriend handled it like a champ.  There was some shaking, and some denial, and she was probably a couple shades whiter than was healthy.  But there was no screaming or wailing, no tears, and no running for her life or calling the cops.  After dropping the still alive woman off at the farmhouse (and luckily Jess was too out of it to complain about the game of ding-dong-ditch-the-unconscious-woman-on-your-porch), she sat silently in the backseat as they continued on towards Bobby.

At least the woman had lived.  Dean didn’t really want to find out how well Jess took burying a body in the middle of nowhere on top of everything else.  

Sam tried to climb into the back seat with her, probably intent to comfort her with his puppy-dog eyes and Sasquatch hugs.  But she shook her head and closed the car door.  His brother wrestled the hurt look quickly off his face and climbed into the front seat.  Dean didn’t say a word. 

An hour into the drive, Jess released a shaky breath (the first sound she’d made since, well, let’s call it the incident) and asked, “That….wasn’t a bad acid trip or something.  Was it.”

It hadn’t been a question, but Sam quietly answered anyway, “No.  It wasn’t.”

She took in a deep breath.  Dean met her eyes briefly in the rear view mirror.  They steeled as she let the air slowly back out through pursed lips.  “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her. 

She nodded and turned away, looking out the window.  “Okay.”

“Huh.”  Dean glanced at Sam, who gave a helpless little shrug before turning partially around in his seat to look at her.  Dean looked over at the movement and frowned.  “Damn it, Sammy.  Seatbelt.”

His brother ignored him.  “Are you okay?”

Jess met his eyes, and he could see she was still shaken (who wouldn’t be) but she gave a pretty firm nod.  When she spoke, her voice was quiet but steady.  “Put your seatbelt on.”

He stared at her for a minute longer before he shared a small, sad smile.  He settled back in his seat and did as she asked. 

-o-o-o-

Two hours out of Sioux Falls, the sun started to rise once more and Dean decided it was safe to call Bobby to give him some heads up they were coming.

“This better be life or death, otherwise yer dead.”

Well.  Sort of safe. 

The gruff voice was so familiar and so damn missed that Dean choked on his own breath, and then his lungs and his tongue and his throat, just for good measure. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them and he valiantly blinked them out of existence. 

“Uh,” Dean cleared his throat and tried to chuckle, but that, too, got caught.  He pushed through it anyway, sort of sobbing out a humorless laugh.  Awesome start.  “Heya, Bobby.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line.  Dean wasn’t that surprised about it, given the last time he’d seen Bobby in this timeline, but it still hurt like hell.  The kid in him wanted to scream at his dead father figure (Not dead, Dean.  Not yet.  No, not ever) to say something.  To prove he was still there and this wasn’t all some cruel dream of a lonely, broken man.

“Dean?”  He could hear Bobby’s bed creak as the man sat up.  “Dean Winchester.  What the hell, boy.”

“Sorry,” he choked out and fought back a second wave of waterworks.  Damn it, no chick-flick moments.  “I know it’s early.”

“Yer damn right it’s early.  What the hell you calling me for at-” there was a pause and more creaking- “seven in the friggin’ morning?  Whatever this is couldn’t wait?”

“Not unless you want houseguests still in your PJs,” he joked back, and that’s right – joking made this easier.  Made him smile, because it was so damn good to hear Bobby’s gruff voice again.  Now all he was missing was the trademark ‘idjit.’

“What?  Yer coming here?”  Bobby was up now and Dean heard him grabbing the shotgun he kept at the foot of the nightstand.  “Something on yer tail?”

“Maybe, Bobby.  We need you to prep the panic room.”

There was silence on the other line and Dean could picture the old man blinking, stunned, before staring down at his phone like it was the offender. 

Finally there was a grunt.  “How you know about that?”

“Please, I’ve been all over your house.  Like you could keep something that cool a secret.”  Dean looked out the driver window, pulling a grimace and hoping like hell the man would take the lie. 

The silence was suspicious.  The “uh-huh” even more so.  But Bobby didn’t press him; just asked when they’d be getting there and who all was ‘they.’   The surprise at Sam being one of the incoming party was only outdone by the presence of his civilian girlfriend.  

“Damn, son.  What kinda crap did you step in?”

The older Winchester swallowed the lump in his throat by pure force of will.  “Oh, you know me, Bobby.  Only the best kind.”

There was a huff on the other line.  “Idjit.”

There it was.  Dean grinned like it was Christmas and if he was blinking back tears again, everyone could shut the hell up.  “See you in two hours, Bobby.”

The line disconnecting was his only reply, and it made him grin wider.

-o-o-o-

Jess looked up at the old junkyard house as she closed the door to the Impala.  Not that there was much to look at.  The brothers were really going all out with this whole ‘let’s make sure very place we go could double as the set of a horror movie.’  At least they’d arrived in daylight.

“So.  Who is this guy again?”  She glanced to her right, where a giant Rottweiler was chilling on the hood of a blue pick-up turned tow-truck that had seen better days.  The dog turned sad, droopy eyes towards them, heaved a sigh, and went back to napping in the sun.  Hell of a guard dog, that one, she thought.

Dean was grabbing duffel bags out of the trunk, tossing her and Sam’s stuff to his brother.  It was the younger of the two who answered, interrupted the first time around with an ‘oof’ as he caught his go-bag, thrown unnecessarily hard by his dick brother.

“He’s… like our uncle.  Sort of.”

“He’s a hunter.  One of the best,” Dean cut to the chase, shutting the trunk.  He gave her a cheeky smile.  “Dad used to dump us here as kids when we were too young to fight.”

Sam leveled an annoyed look at him, but there was something else in there too: remnants of that stare he’d been giving him since Dean had woken up ten years in the past. 

“What?  I thought we agreed no pulling punches with her.”

“No, you agreed.  There are other ways to say it without making us sound like…like-”

“Like we had a crap father who raised us as soldiers?”

Yup.  There was that look again.

Jess came between them, a hand on either of their shoulders.  “Still right here, you know.”  She patted each of them twice before pushing through the brothers and marching up to Bobby’s porch.  She shouldered her bag and knocked on the screen door.

Dean raised his eyebrows before turning to his brother.  Sam looked equal parts constipated and head over heels in love.  Dean smirked.  “I like her.”

It turned out the old hunter could be surprisingly charming when he wanted to be (when Ellen immediately came to mind, Dean dropped the thought faster than you can say parental sex, because ew.)  By the time the brothers carried their stuff into the house, double checked the wards, salt lines, and devils traps (God, did Dean love the paranoid old hunter), Bobby had Jess more at ease in his stuffy, dusty, book-lined house than she had been with either of the Winchesters since this whole thing started.

Sam tried not to let that hurt, and Dean tried not to laugh at his brother’s award-winning impersonation of a kicked puppy.

They settled in the kitchen, Bobby leaning against the doorframe and the two brothers taking seats at the rickety table next to Jess.  She was drinking a beer and digging into a freshly popped bag of popcorn.

“It’s nine in the morning, Jess.” 

“I’m sorry, did you just have your entire world, belief system, and sanity brought into question overnight?” 

Sam gave her such a hurt look that she stood up, got a second beer, popped the top on the edge of the counter, and handed it over.  Sam accepted it with sagging shoulders.  She offered him the open popcorn bag. 

Dean was in fucking love.  His brother needed to marry this girl yesterday.             

While the sasquatch munched on some kernels and Dean was digging himself a handful as well, Bobby watched the surreal scene with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation.  “If y’all are done gettin’ comfy?”

Dean tried to talk through his mouth full of popcorn.  Jess made a disgusted sound and Sam elbowed him in the arm.  He had the decency to look guilty, close his mouth and resume chewing.  Sam took over.

“Thanks for having us, Bobby.”

“You wanna give me a little more info on why ya needed me to?  Or what’s chasing you boys?”

“Boy and girl, actually,” Dean corrected as he swallowed heavily, stealing a swig of Sam’s beer to wash down the ridiculously sized mouthful.  He nodded his head at his annoyed brother and repulsed girlfriend.  “Don’t think the demons care much about me.”

The silent ‘yet’ was not so silent, even to an audience that had no idea what was coming.

“Demons?”  Bobby had straightened, pushing off the doorframe.  “You got demons on yer tail?  As in more than one?” 

He looked between the two brothers, both of whom seemed sheepishly unable to make eye contact.  Sam was wrecked, which Bobby supposed was on point.  As far as he’d known, the kid had run away to college and gotten out of the life.  If that had changed before all this, he would have heard about it.  Which meant whatever shit they were knee-deep in had found him at school.

Dean avoided his gaze for completely different reasons.  The old man knew him almost as well as Sammy did.  And that didn’t bode well for pulling off his whole ‘nothing about me is different, nope, I’m not from the future or anything’ gig.  He’d pretty much blown it by hugging the man too long and too tightly when they’d first entered the house.  And he definitely hadn’t fled immediately afterward to hide the friggin’ waterworks. 

Were there allergies in November?  There must be.  No other reason his eyes kept watering all the damn time.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed at them.  “Alright.  Spill it.  Now.”

They did.  Dean let his brother do most of the talking.  Sam seemed a lot less likely to accidentally slip up with information he wasn’t supposed to know because he wasn’t from the friggin’ future.  Dean considered that pretty solid reasoning to stay out of the story as much as possible.  He added bits here and there, mostly so Bobby wouldn’t get suspicious at his silence.  Though, from the occasional looks he was getting, it wasn’t working.

“Then we headed here,” Sam concluded, looking over at Jess, who was hearing some of this for the first time.  Her eyes were wide and she’d certainly had an interruption or two of her own when she’d learned that Brady had been a demon.  Oh, yeah, and that they’d left him alone at the hospital recovering from two years of bodily possession. 

Now she reached over and clasped Sam’s hand, giving him a shaky smile.  She was trying, despite all of it.  Sam wanted to give that hand a grateful, loving, needy kiss, but decided to wait till they were alone.  Dean had been waggling eyebrows like clockwork every hour since this all started.  He really didn’t need more fuel.

Bobby’s eyes predictably turned to the older Winchester now that Sam had finished the story, including their little the-truth-is-out-there-and-we-can-prove-it stunt.  Dean flinched instinctually. 

“You summoned a crossroads demon?”  The outrage in that sentence was worse than a disappointed parent and the kid shied away.   “What were you thinking?”

He shrugged, standing up in a defensive push and heading for the fridge to get away from the man he considered more of a father than his own.  A man who had, until yesterday, been dead, and was now ramping up for a lecture.  It was too much to face without getting both choked up and pissed off and damn it, he was not going to fucking cry in Bobby’s kitchen and blow this whole thing before he had fixed any of it.

Grabbing a beer, he spent a ridiculously long minute opening it, wasted a few more seconds taking an extended gulp, then finally turned around to face the music.  “We had to prove it to her somehow.”

“And summoning a demon was the first thing that came to mind, huh?”  Bobby looked at the young hunter incredulously.  Something wasn’t adding up and he was determined to figure out what that was.  “Why don’t you just invite the damn devil over for tea next time!”

The bottle of beer shattered in Dean’s hand, spilling foam and alcohol across the kitchen floor. 

“Dean!”  Sam was up and at his brother’s side in seconds.  He swiped a kitchen towel and pressed it into Dean’s bleeding hand.  The older of the two was ashen white.  Bobby didn’t miss the shaking in his hands as his brother cleared his palm of glass chunks and Jess fetched paper towels off the counter.

The injured hunter came back from whatever had gripped him, noticing the minor cuts as if for the first time. 

“Shit!  Sorry.  I….Shit,” Dean was rambling as he waved his brother off and grabbed the towel for himself, wrapping his hand.  Bobby’s eyes narrowed at the delay, which seemed dangerously like shock.

Something was up. Bobby had never seen Dean so jittery – so pent up.  Boy was wound tighter than a mousetrap, and seemed just as ready to snap on a hair-pin trigger.  And breaking a bottle with his bare hand?  Bobby’s eyes involuntarily glanced at the two remaining drinks on the table.  That was one hell of a grip.  Or one hell of a jerk reaction.

The question was, what set it off?

Sam crouched on the ground, helping Jess clean up the spilt liquid and glass with paper towels and what kitchen cloths they had at hand.  Dean backed out of the way, still a few shades paler than he should be.  He rubbed at his chest with his uninjured hand, watching his brother clean up his most recent shit-show. 

“You alright, son?” Bobby asked softly, treading carefully.  He had no idea what had triggered him, but Dean was definitely not firing on all cylinders. 

The older Winchester gave an absent nod.  “Fine.  Sorry. I-” He shook his head to clear it.  “I haven’t slept much the last couple days.  I’m just on edge.”

It wasn’t a lie.  He was on day three of no sleep, and while he’d gone on less for longer and in an older body to boot, it wasn’t like he’d been in a stable place to begin with these last few days.

Adding Bobby to the mix had been rough enough.  Now he couldn’t shake the image of Cas’s face, horridly contorted by Lucifer’s smiling malice. 

He wanted to throw up.

Bobby nodded in understanding, but still watched the hunter cautiously.  Dean helped finish cleaning up the beer and Sam suggested maybe they call it for now.  His brother obviously needed some sleep, and he was fairly certain he owed Jess some alone time and no shortage of overdue answers. 

Their host gruffly agreed, saying the panic room was prepped and the couple could have their talk down there.  His house was warded seven ways to Sunday, but that was still the safest place they could be. 

The two headed downstairs with their bags.  Dean collapsed on the achingly familiar couch in the study, towel still wrapped around his hand.  Internally, he weighed the option of the bedroom upstairs with its sagging twin mattresses and privacy versus the couch that still bore sharpie stains from one of their stayovers during Sammy’s Picasso phase.  Ultimately, he chose the couch.  He’d deal with the backlash of waking up screaming from a nightmare if it meant he’d be ready to fight should demons figure out where they were. 

He chose to ignore the other reason: not wanting to let Bobby out of his sight just yet.  He was too tired to beat back the deep ache at the thought of leaving the old hunter, even if it was just to head upstairs.

Bobby settled at his desk with a stack of books on demons.  Dean pretended he didn’t feel the hunter’s eyes on him every few minutes and instead focused on slowing his breathing.  The scent of old spice and the turning of worn pages was a painfully missed lullaby.  He prayed to absolutely no one he believed in that he wouldn’t dream and fell asleep with his hand spread over his heart.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 5

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He was dreaming. 

He’d had this dream so many times now that it was his first thought to recognize it for what it was.  The mountain lake with its autumn leaves drifting across the calm surface.  The slight wobble of the collapsible chair as he settled into it.  The bobbing lure a few feet into the water.  The tap of his boot against the edge of the wooden dock, drumming out the soothing beats of ACDC. 

“Hello, Dean.”

The hunter looked over and up.  The angel was standing next to him, haloed by the afternoon sun as he stared forward, observing the lake with a seriousness that belied the serene view.  Dean smiled as the last piece of the dream slid into place.

“Hey, Cas.  How’s it hanging?”

The angel looked down at him, a small frown forming between his eyes as he considered the question.  Dean always loved when he did that.  It amused him to no end. 

“It is…hanging well.”

The hunter snorted, mouth splitting into a wide grin.  Castiel tilted his head. 

“Nevermind.  Inside joke.”

Blue eyes regarded him profound severity.  “We are not inside.”

This time Dean rolled his eyes and looked back out onto the water.  “Human joke, then.”

“Ah.”  Castiel returned his gaze to the water.  They settled into silence.  The trees rustled with the fall breeze.  Cas’s trench coat flapped in time with the wind.  Dean’s lure bobbed with a potential catch.  He decided he could reel it in in a minute. 

“You are injured.”

He looked up in surprise at the angel.  “Huh?”

Castiel reached out and took his towel-wrapped hand from where it rested on the arm of the chair.  A beer sat inches from his fingers, settled in the koozie drink holder.  Dean vaguely remembered cutting himself on the bottle, though this one was intact.  Huh.

“It’s nothing,” he dismissed, even as Castiel unwrapped the towel.  There wasn’t any blood on the fabric, which Dean found curious.  The cuts were fresh: the edges raw.  Cas held his palm in both his hands, almost reverently as he stared down at the injury.  Dean thought he could feel the angel’s thumbs rub gentle circles over his skin, but Cas’s fingers were not moving. 

He looked up at his friend as they sat there, all but holding hands while nothing happened.  Distantly, Dean thought he should be weirded out.

“You can’t heal me, can you?”  He didn’t know why he asked it.  The answer was obvious, laid out before him in the cuts that still marred his skin.  Cas would have already healed them if he could.  The words were nothing but salt in a painful wound for the angel.  But still he said them.

Cas looked at him with such sorrow that he instantly regretted his impulsive, selfish mouth. 

“There’s not enough left.”  His words were quiet but even.  There was nothing behind them, unlike the pain in the wrinkles of his forehead or the apology in his eyes.  Merely a fact he couldn’t change.

Dean wasn’t sure what the angel meant, but assumed it was his diminished grace.  Metatron had done quite the number on the thing Cas considered his soul. 

His stomach twisted unpleasantly.  Well, Metatron and Lucifer.  “I’m sorry, Cas.”  

The angel’s piercing eyes come back to him.  Storm clouds were moving in from the east, changing the blue sky to grey.  The wind picked up, shuffling more dying leaves into the water.  He swallowed heavily.

“I couldn’t save you.  I didn’t…”  Dean trailed off, looking away as he was unable to say it aloud.  I couldn’t stop Lucifer from wearing you to the end of the world.  I didn’t even try.

“It was my choice, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, it was a stupid choice!”  The hunter stood from the chair, towering over his friend, though he was hardly taller.  Castiel only watched calmly.  The lack of emotion – of any reaction – suddenly irritated him.  “What the hell were you thinking, man?  Saying yes to the Devil?  After everything we went through putting him back in the box the first time?” 

Cas didn’t answer, just regarded the hunter silently until something drew his attention away.  He looked over his shoulder, back towards shore.

 “Damn it, Cas, don’t you dare fly off on me!”

Castiel turned back to him, eyes lit and serious.  The angel held out two fingers pressed familiarly together.  “You need to wake up now, Dean.”

Those fingers touched his forehead and, for a second, Dean wondered what would happen to the fish still caught on his line.

-o-o-o-

Dean shot off the couch with a gun in his uninjured hand and a blanket in the other.  It took him a minute to orient himself, swinging the weapon in a half circle as he took in the room and all potential threats.

“Whoa, Dean, put the gun down, son.  It’s just us.”  It was Bobby, arms raised and to Dean’s right, by his desk.  Battle-hardened eyes accepted him as a non-threat and swung around to the other two occupants of the room, standing by the door to the hall.  Sam pushed Jess behind him, keeping both his hands clearly visible.

The hardened hunter almost collapsed as his body released the tension and adrenaline it had stockpiled.  Dean lowered the gun.  The room let out a collective breath as the others dropped their arms.  Jess stepped out from behind Sam.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, tucking the gun into his jeans.  He looked down at the blanket in his hand, wondering how it had gotten there, before chucking it onto the couch. 

“Are you-” His brother took an aborted step towards him, awkwardly trying to express his concern without actually showing any of it, in case it drove Dean further away.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” the older Winchester answered automatically, passing a hand through his hair as he looked around the room, at his younger brother and his (not) dead girlfriend, at his (not) dead father figure.  Still in 2005.  So, not a crazy dream after all. 

Speaking of crazy dreams.  His eyes landed back on the couch.  That had been an odd one.  He had never dreamt of Cas before – well, he had, obviously, but his mind had never been the one supplying the angel.  It had always been the real Cas.  Dean had never come up with the winged dick all on his own before.  At least, not in that dream, with the lake and dock and the fish he never got to reel in.  Nightmares were another story, and one he was steadfastly not going to think about. 

But his mind had definitely been responsible for his feathered friend this time.  Had to be, because Cas was gone.  Or, well, not gone.  But not here, in this timeline, aware of who Dean Winchester was and inclined to visit his dreams for some chitchat.  And even if he did for some odd reason, this-time Castiel wouldn’t be the same – wouldn’t even know him.  And he definitely wouldn’t have known about Lucifer. 

No, this had to be a product of his strained mental state.  Dream-Cas hadn’t even been Ten-Years-From-Now Cas.  That one understood pop culture references (sort of) and got most of Dean’s idioms (even if he was terrible at using them himself) and couldn’t fly away from conversations he didn’t want to have anymore.  No, dream-Cas had been more like...Apocalypse Cas.  Team-Free-Will era: pre-God, pre-purgatory and pre-Sam’s-scarred-mind. 

In some twisted way, it made sense that he’d conjured up that version.  That had been his best friend, and those had been the high times of their friendship.  Before so much crap and pain and lies had weighed them down until they barely knew each other anymore and all that was left was guilt and loyalty leftover from better versions of themselves.

Dean shook his head.  They didn’t have time for this head-shrink crap.  They had more important things than analyzing a crumbling relationship that didn’t even exist anymore outside of a dream.

He gave the couch one last fierce look before he faced his family.  All of who were sporting questioning expressions of their own.

“Sorry,” he said automatically.  “Odd dream.”

“What kind of dream?” Sammy asked, a little too quickly and a lot too forwardly.  Dean gave him a funny look.

Oh, you know, Sammy.  Just the Touched By An Angel kind.  Only you don’t know angels exist and this one isn’t supposed to be in my head yet.

“Just a dream,” he answered instead, eyeing his brother warily.  When Sam looked like he was about to press for more, Dean added with a shrug, “I was fishing.  Off a dock on some mountain lake.”

Sam’s brow creased in confusion, then disappointment.  “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh.’” Dean mimicked with confusion all his own.  What the hell had the kid been hoping he was dreaming about?

“Well, if we’re done sharing?” Bobby muttered, uncrossing his arms.  “Can we get back to the demon crisis, ya idjits?”

They gathered around the desk where the old hunter had laid out several of his best demon guide books, all open to various traps and spells and exorcisms. 

“Look, I spent the last six hours-” Six hours?  Dean checked the clock shoved haphazardly between books on the shelf behind Bobby’s desk.  Why the hell didn’t anyone wake me up? “-checking for demonic omens all around the University and Palo Alto for the last week.  I got nothing.”

“Demonic omens?” Sam asked, leaning over to scan one of the books.

“Crop death, animal mutilations, freak lighting storms.  The signs vary, but they’re all pretty easy to spot when they happen.  Bunch of cows gutted in a field tends to make the evening news.”

Jess looked fairly sick and Sam grimaced. 

“But there was none of that near Stanford?” Sam asked, moving over to the large map of the California bay area Bobby had spread out.

“Not a lick anywhere on the map,” he answered with a huff.  “If something was supposed to go down, it sure as hell wasn’t coming gift-wrapped.”

“What does that even mean?” the younger Winchester asked, straightening up.  “Brady said they had plans for me.  I’m assuming ‘they’ are demons higher up the food chain?”

Bobby gave a half shrug.  “Sure, sounds ‘bout right.  But I’m telling you, bigger fish would have left a calling card of some sort.”  He waved his hands towards the map.  “We got nothing.”

“Maybe…” Jess’s softer voice broke the silence in the room.  She looked hopefully at Sam.  “Maybe he was lying?”

He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his chest.  He kissed the top of her forehead.  “I don’t think that’s a risk we can take, Jess.”

She returned the hug for a moment, savoring his arms around her and letting herself have a second of codependent comfort before pulling away.  Jess was a strikingly independent woman, one of the things she knew Sam loved about her and something she sure as hell loved about herself.  Though this had shaken her to her core and she was definitely not okay in any definition of the word, she wasn’t the type to bury herself in comfort when they had things to face.

“So what’s next?” she asked, steel in her voice and determination in her eyes.  Sam wanted to kiss her even more, but held himself back.  He glanced over at his brother – a default move anytime he caught himself being too ‘chick-flicky’ with the love of his life.  He hated himself for it; screw Dean’s macho insecurities and closet-homophobia. 

Despite all that, he still looked fleetingly at his big brother and frowned at what he saw. 

“Dean?”

The older hunter looked up from where he was staring at Bobby’s desk.  His memory was pretty fuzzy on the whole thing, but he thought there had been signs in Palo Alto the first time around.  He was pretty sure Dad had said as much, though he couldn’t recall when or why.  But Dean pushed that to the side for now and raised his eyebrows at his brother in question.  He hadn’t been paying much attention to whatever was being said.  “Huh?”

“You…okay?”

Green eyes squinted under a furled brow and he gave that annoyed pull back of his head he did anytime he didn’t get why someone was asking him something.  “Yeah, fine.  Why?”

Sam lowering his gaze to his brother’s chest, where his hand was absently rubbing.  Dean followed the pointed look, only to realize what he was doing and pull his arm away. 

Huh.  He’d been doing that a lot, hadn’t he? 

“I’m fine,” he reassured all three of them yet again.  He kept his thoughts away from holes caused by Hell and the slight ache spread across his pectorals like a heat wrap. 

Sam opened his mouth, probably to argue some more about his definition of ‘fine,’ when Rumfeld’s fierce barking erupted from outside.  Jess jumped and Bobby had a shotgun already in hand.  Dean knew better than to ask where the hell it had come from. 

There was a knock at the door.

Dean and Sam drew their guns as well, now.  All four of the rooms’ occupants turned their sights to the front entryway beyond the hall.  Jess moved behind the younger Winchester. 

“You expecting guests?”

The old hunter shook his head and the group moved together to the front of the house.  Sam kept Jess behind him when she refused to go down to the panic room if they weren’t all going.

Dean gave Bobby a signaled look, tucking his gun back into his pants as another knock sounded.  It was innocent enough – even polite as far as knocks went.  But the hunters were too experienced to let their guard down for any reason.  Bobby nodded back, shotgun already cocked.  He stepped off to the side of the door, ready to fire should anything unfriendly come through.  Eyes still locked on Dean, he pointed upwards at the ceiling and swirled his finger in a circle.

The older Winchester nodded in understanding.

Sam maneuvered Jess out of sight from the doorway, standing near her but within eye-line of the porch.   He gave a nod to his brother, and Dean opened the door.

It was a young man standing on the other side, fist raised to knock for the third time.  His eyes widened in surprise and he gave a little ‘Oh!’ before taking a step back.  His smile was genuine, his dress shirt newly pressed and his tie ever so slightly askew.  Absolutely nothing about him screamed evil.

Dean didn’t buy it for a second.  Rumfeld was still snapping and snarling at the end of his chain.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” the kid began, glancing a little nervously at the Rottweiler only a few feet away.  “I’m with the Souix Falls Kingdom Hall, and I was hoping to speak to you today about our Lord and Savior-”

“Yeah, sorry, pal.  We ain’t the religious type.” 

“Oh, uh…” the kid’s face fell and he looked around awkwardly.  “That’s- That’s okay.  Have you ever considered letting the Lord into your life?”

Dean stared at the man with an unwavering glare.  “Yup.  Didn’t work out so well for me.” 

He blinked, clearly not expecting that.  Dean wasn’t surprised.  Even if he was human, which he seriously doubted, it wasn’t exactly a common reply.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  May I ask what went wrong?”

Sure, pal.

“The world ended.  Now, if you don’t mind.”  He made a shooing motion with his hand and the Jehova’s Witness, eyes wide, looked back behind him at the way he’d come. 

“Oh.  Um.  Yes, well.”  He looked down at the book in his hand, then back up to Dean.  “If you’re sure?”

“Pretty damn.”

The kid just nodded and turned to step off the porch.  The hunter actually thought he might well and truly leave.  But he stopped at the edge, made an aborted movement, and spun back around.  Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you sure you don’t-“

“Christo.”

The man’s eyes immediately turned black and he sneered, innocent act gone in the blink of those depthless eyes.  Dean smirked, pointedly looking up at the devils trap newly painted in a subtle grey on the roof of the porch.  Sam and Bobby had obviously made some improvements while Dean had slept.  Awesome. 

“Well, Sammy.  Looks like you get to practice your first exorcism.” 

-o-o-o-

They took care of the demon right then and there on the porch.  He snarled and bitched and threatened to no avail.  Bobby handed Sam a heavy tomb entitled The Key of Solomon and the kid performed the Latin exorcism without a hitch.  This time, though, they sent the bastard back home with a message: Leave Jess out of this.

The others hadn’t quite known what to make of it when Dean said it aloud, but their agreement was there.  They just weren’t sure what ‘this’ was.  It was becoming more and more obvious that Dean did, though.

“Time to finish that earlier conversation, boys.”  Bobby handed them both beers as he came down the basement stairs.  His stony expression and pointed look in Dean’s direction told them he was serious.  “I hear of three…maybe four possessions a year.  You’ve got two in the span o’ twenty-four hours?  What’s going on that you ain’t told me?”

They had relocated to the basement, with Jess tucked in the panic room, Sam sitting on the cot beside her, and Dean in the doorway.  Bobby joined them, leaning against the small desk next to the entrance.  It was a bit cramped, but they all agreed it was safer this way. 

The demons obviously knew where they were now.  Dean had no doubt the fake bible thumper had been a scout, seeing if the Winchesters had retreated to Singer’s and fully intending to leave once he had that information.  Just hadn’t counted on a devil’s trap sticking him to the porch with no way out.  At least with him kicking and screaming his way back downstairs, it would take longer for him to report to his superiors.  They had a little time, but not much.  Shit was going to go down, and it was probably going down soon.

Sam looked to Dean, expecting him to come clean.  Dean knew the kid had no idea what he had to come clean about.  Didn’t matter anyway.  He had no intention of telling the truth. 

Problem was, he hadn’t figured out what he was going to tell them. 

The silence stretched on in the iron room as Dean wracked his brain for something plausible that would explain how he had known Brady was a demon, that Bobby had a panic room, and all the other shit he had no reasonable explanation for knowing.  He couldn’t keep dodging the question for much longer – he could tell from the looks his brother and Bobby were giving him. 

But he needed time to think.  A half-assed lie now would only get him caught sooner rather than later, and if he was going to fix everything he needed time. 

Dean was an action sorta guy.  He worked great under pressure when that pressure was something he could physically fight.  Planning wasn’t his strong suit, and neither was spinning last minute lies with no room to think them through.  

Son of a bitch, what do I say?

“Dean.”  His brother’s voice pulled him out of his desperate, circling thoughts that were going absolutely nowhere.  He looked up, meeting Sammy’s gaze and blinking in surprise at the expression on his brother’s face.   Sam’s eyes were earnest and understanding and desperately pleading for something that he wasn’t sure he understood. 

“Have you…” he faltered, then steeled his expression as best as twenty-two-year-old Sam could.  “Are you having dreams about things before they happen?”

Dean blinked.  What?  Why would Sam think-

His brain ground to a halt.  Of course Sam would think he was having psychic dreams.  Because Sam was having psychic dreams.  Son of a bitch!  How had he forgotten that? 

Because it had been so long since he’d had one.  Sam had stopped having them after they’d killed Azazel.  Sure, he’d kept juicing up his psychic demon-killing abilities, but he never mentioned having dreams again. 

It had been years and years ago, but Sam had once told Dean he’d dreamt of Jess’s death days before it happened.  Which meant he was having psychic dreams – those dreams – right now, and he didn’t know why.  And Sam, being Sam, would find relief in thinking he wasn’t alone: that he wasn’t the only freak.  Dean was his brother by blood – why shouldn’t he, too, be channeling the psychic mumbo-jumbo. 

Not to mention he’d known about the woman in white after waking up in the Impala.  Sure, that was because he’d woken up from a ten year time jump, but Sam didn’t know that.  For all he knew, Dean could have dreamt about Demon Brady and hauled ass back to Stanford cuz of it.

Suddenly the constipated looks his brother kept giving him made a hell of a lot more sense.

The older hunter scrubbed his hand through his hair and raced through the pros and cons of claiming he was dreaming of the future.  His list was quickly piling up on the pros, with minor cons he could deal with later.  Son of a bitch, this might actually work.  Sammy was unknowingly giving him an out.  And, even better, it was a plan that meant not isolating his little brother as a freak of nature this time around. 

That would probably be a plus.

But he couldn’t just outright admit it.  No version of him, circa 2005 or later, would ever come out of the supernatural closet without some serious denial.  So he hunched up his shoulders and tried for his best defensive, bitchy tone.  “What?  No.  I haven’t- What are you talking about Sammy?”

Sam swallowed heavily, but his eyes were set with determination.  He’d played just enough panic into his words to make his little brother see the dismissal for what it was.  “It’s okay, Dean.  I’ve been having them too.”

Bobby’s head whipped around to focus on the younger Winchester.  He’d been sitting quiet, watching this all unfold (and giving Sam an odd look or two as the conversation turned back to dreaming once more).  But now his attention was fully on the younger of the boys.

“Come again?”

Sam didn’t answer the older hunter.  His focus was solely on his brother as he stood from the cot.  “Dean, what Brady said about- about hurting Jess.”  He glanced down at the love of his life, who was watching him with wide, doe eyes.  He looked back at his brother.  “I’ve been dreaming about it.  For- for weeks.  Exactly as he…described.”

Jess reached out and grabbed his hand in both of hers.  She knew he’d been having nightmares for a while now, but he never told her what they were about.  Not that she would have believed him before all of this.  (Part of her was still struggling to believe any of this, even now.)

“I thought,” Sam trailed off again.  “I was too young to remember Mom, but you told me how she died.  I thought I was just…getting cold feet or something.  That it was just nerves.”

It took a minute for Dean to realize what his brother was talking about.  Sam had been thinking of proposing before Jess had died.  Realization settled in his stomach like lead.  It would have been so easy for Sam to write off his dreams as anxiety.  His mother had died in a horrible manner, and he was about to ask the love of his life to marry him.  To one day become the mother of his children.  It was pretty easy to see the connection and sweep it under the rug as his mind’s way of visualizing his anxieties.

Dean let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  Damn it.  The kid hadn’t told him that before.   

Bobby was looking between the two of them with disbelief.  Dean ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath.  He’d probably stalled enough to be believable. 

“Yeah, Sammy.”  He made sure to put a touch of defeat in his tone.  Never surrender without a fight; that was the Dean Winchester way.  “I’ve been seeing shit too.”

The sheer relief of ‘I’m not alone’ that filled Sammy’s face at Dean’s confession was almost enough to make him wish he was having psychic dreams.  If only so the feel-good comfort of offering his brother so much support wasn’t tainted by the bittersweet knowledge that he was once again lying his ass off to his family.

Bobby stood to his full height, confronting Dean with his most serious ‘no more bullshit’ face.  “Let me see if I got this right.  You boys-” he glanced at Sam, “- are seeing the future?  In yer dreams?”

Dean knew it wasn’t a lack of belief that Bobby was held up on.  Hell, with all the shit he’d scene and company he kept, he knew there were real psychics and clairvoyants out in the world.  He just never thought in a million years that John Winchester’s boys would be two of ‘em.

“Dean,” Sam croaked, interrupting the older hunter before Dean could formulate a believable Dean-2005 response.  “Did you….did you dream of Jess, too?”

The older of the two brothers glanced at the woman on the cot beside Sam.  She seemed small, now.  Fragile, even though he knew she was pretty strong for a civilian.  He shook his head.  “No.  I, uh, just knew Brady was possessed.”

“And the woman in white?”

Bobby’s head swiveled like a bobble head.  “What woman in white?”  He sounded about half a step away from beating answers out of the two brothers if they didn’t start paying his questions some attention.

Dean gave a shrug.  “Yeah, her too.  Brady seemed more, you know, pressing.”  He turned to Bobby, knowing they were in for one heck of an explosion if someone didn’t start talking sense.  “The hunt I thought Dad was on, in California.  It’s a woman in white.  I…uh….dreamt about it.  And Brady.”

He was thankful when Sam took the initiative and launched into his own dream experiences, since Dean didn’t have much more of a lie ready to spin.  Bobby listened as Sam described finding Jess pinned to the ceiling.  She looked slightly green around the edges and he glossed over some of the more gruesome details Dean knew about.  But the older of the two confirmed it was exactly as Mom had died, and exactly as Brady had described. 

Bobby turned expectantly to him, crossing his arms over his chest.  Dean shifted under the stare. 

“I dreamt the kid was possessed.  Was gonna make a move on Sam.  Didn’t know what,” he lied, and winced as he realized how vague and utter crap-tastic this all sounded.  “Just knew it was gonna happen soon.” 

The old man raised an eyebrow at him, suspicion clear in his body language.  Bobby knew Dean.  And the man he knew would have been damn uncomfortable about having psychic mojo, let alone embracing or listening to it. 

“And you, what, knew you were psychic?  Just like that?”

Dean managed not to flinch, instead clenching his jaw defensively.  “It wasn’t the first time,” he lied through his teeth. 

Sam perked up at that, but his brother didn’t want to elaborate.  If he played it off like it wasn’t a story he was keen on retelling, they might drop it.  Which would work well for him, as he didn’t actually have a story and he definitely didn’t want to try telling one. 

“It was a couple weeks ago.  I thought it was crazy, so I ignored it.”  He looked away.  “Bad idea.  People got hurt.”

His brother immediately backed down, like he knew the kid would.  Sammy knew the guilt Dean carried when civilians ended up with backlash from their jobs.  He wouldn’t push, especially if he thought that wound was recent. 

“This time, it was Sammy,” Dean finished, defensively.  He shouldn’t have to say anymore, Bobby would get the idea.  “So yeah, I acted on it.”

It seemed to work.  The old hunter was still watching him warily, but accepted the information.  “Alright,” he answered begrudgingly.  “So you’re both…suddenly psychic.  Think we can add that to the bucket of weird we got going on.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered.

“What do you think it means?”  Sam was looking between the two earnestly.  Dean kept forgetting how young the kid was.  Still so freakin’ innocent, despite everything twenty-two years had shown him.  But, in comparison to what the next ten years would deliver, this was definitely innocence. 

“I haven’t got a clue,” Bobby supplied, shaking his head.  He tore his cap off and ran his hands through his hair a couple times before replacing the trademark hat.  “But I think whatever you’ve stepped into…it’s serious crap, boys.”

The group fell silent as the weight of events settled heavy in the room.  They needed a next step, and they didn’t have a lot of time to come up with it.  Even with two ‘psychics,’ they were fighting blind.

And Dean didn’t know how much he could risk telling them. 

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Season 1: Chapter 6

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In the end, they decided to abandon Bobby’s place for some time.  The hunter was none too happy to be leaving his home behind, even temporarily, but they all agreed that they didn’t want to see what an angry demon would do to a house lacking the Winchesters. 

So they filled one of his trucks with relevant books, supplies, and as many weapons as he had (which was no small number).  Rumfeld climbed into the passenger seat, and Bobby told the boys he’d follow behind them. 

The small caravan pulled out just two and a half hours after the possessed church-goer had come to tattletale on them.  Forty five minutes of that had been taken up burying the poor guy who played meatsuit to the scout, and arranging Bobby’s clunkers atop the freshly dug grave in case anyone stopped by over the next couple days.

Jess had stubbornly helped out, despite Sam’s insistence that she should be inside in the panic room and definitely not out in the open burying a corpse.  Dean was beginning to think she didn’t like being locked in their little war-room like a princess in a tower, or something.

The two cars headed south.  West was out – that was the way they came, and something about heading back didn’t sit well with Sam or Jess.  East was towards the Great Lakes.  Dean didn’t want to box themselves in along the Canadian border in case Hell came at them hard.  Southeast was the older Winchester’s first choice – Kentucky was sounding like good pickings and was central enough to host all the directions as backup options.  Except the logical route that shied away from the Lakes also took them way too close to Lawrence, Kansas.  There was no way in hell Dean was driving anywhere near there with demons on the lookout for them.

So south they went.                           

They couldn’t lie low with any of their friends.  It was clear from the demon showing up at Bobby’s that Hell was scouting out their acquaintances.  Dean remembered Meg doing something similar, if not a hell of a lot more permanent.  He hoped she wasn’t on the playing field yet, but reminded himself he had a list to make, and she needed to be near the top of it. 

Sam made quick calls to the friends they could get a hold of, telling them to go to ground for a few days or be weary of anyone coming by.  None were happy to hear that the Winchesters had freaking demons on their tail and determined ones at that.  But they promised to keep their eyes and ears open and stay safe.

Dean turned west once they hit Omaha, cutting onto Interstate 80 before they ended up in the too-close-to-home parts of Kansas.  He’d turn south again once they’d cleared Lexington.

He resisted calling Ellen.  They hadn’t met her yet, so it was likely the demons wouldn’t bother her or Jo.  Although it still wouldn’t hurt to give the Roadhouse a heads-up.  Maybe he could convince Bobby to call them, so it wasn’t suspicious coming from him.  They needed to send some hunters to Jericho, too.  The older hunter could probably wrangle someone up for that.

Bobby would need an anti-possession charm, too.  They should have gotten him one before they got in separate cars.  Really, they were going to have to visit a tattoo place sooner rather than later.

They drove until they were two states over and starving.  The diner they stopped at specialized in grease and cold French fries, but it was the only place open, so they didn’t complain.  Well, Dean did, but the others just shoveled food while they argued about where to go next.

After some back and forth, they settled on Rufus’ cabin.  Dean had to pretend he didn’t know what Bobby was talking about or who Rufus was.  He only slipped up twice, but totally covered it like a pro.  No suspicions there, whatsoever.  (And no, Sammy, I haven’t dreamt this already, now drop it!) 

The old hunter said the cabin was secluded, heavily protected, and unknown by almost anyone other than him and a handful of hunters.  Even if demons did somehow get their claws into those guys, none of them would connect Rufus with the Winchesters.  Hell, they’d hardly connect Rufus with Bobby anymore, since the two had a falling out some time ago (which Dean reminded himself he totally didn’t know about because he didn’t know the man yet.)

Bobby begrudgingly called the grumpy jackass as they headed out to the car.  He promised a couple bottles of Johny Walker Blue in exchange for use of the cabin for a few weeks.  The caravan turned north and headed for the Canadian border.

-o-o-o-

Jess was just starting to doze off when Sam turned around in the front seat and gently tapped her knee.  “Jess, give me your phone.”

She mumbled unintelligently as she dug into her pocket and pulled out the small flip device.  She handed it over, peering at her boyfriend through exhausted lids.  Sam turned the phone over and slid the battery cover and power unit out.   She sat up, significantly more awake, as she realized what he was doing.

“They can track it,” he answered her unasked question as he pulled out the chip and snapped it in half.   

“Oh.” 

He passed the phone back with an apologetic expression.  She took it with numb fingers and he threw the broken sim card out the window.  Laying back down, she pressed her forehead to the cold glass.  The scenery blurred past with every mile and she thought of nothing in particular. 

-o-o-o-

Bobby scoffed when Dean mentioned an anti-possession charm at their next pit stop.  He pulled a length of cord from the neckline of his shirt to show a much more complex token then the ones the Winchesters wore.  Dean just smirked – should have known. 

The older hunter took the, “You’re awesome, Bobby,” as apology enough.

-o-o-o-

Montana was beautiful.  Jess wondered why she’d never visited before.  Possibly because golden wheat fields and flat farmlands were seemingly the only thing to see for three quarters of the state.  But as they turned further west and dug into the mountains and forests that made up the western edge, Jess regretted not having made time before.

They stopped for dinner in Missoula.  They’d been driving through the day and she was stiff and achy and so damn sick of the car.   Those precious two hours they spent in an actual restaurant (that served more than burgers and beer, thank God) would be the last of civilization for some time.  When she could drag her feet no longer, they got back in the car and headed for Whitefish.

An hour and a half later, the highway rounded a bend to reveal a large expanse of black in the night.  It was a massive lake, nestled between looming peaks to the right and rolling hills to the left.  The water was eerily calm as the highway stretched out along the shores.  Jess could see silver pinpricks of light reflected in the inky depths.  The sky was endless here, stretching into eternity and brimming with more stars than she had ever seen before.  They clouded the night with their abundance and Jess realized she was looking at the Milky Way.

She wanted to tell the boys to pull over.  Three days ago she would have called it romantic and insisted, teasingly, that her boyfriend hold her while they lay on the hood of the classic old car beneath the starry sky.  Sam would press his cheek to her hair and whisper he loved her.  She’d punch him in the arm and say he’d better.  They’d lazily kiss as satellites passed above and the lapping of the lake sung to them.

But that was then, and today was not the same life.  So she didn’t say anything at all and they drove on.

The town of Whitefish, Montana was an hour past the big lake, nestled at the foot of heavy mountains.  Signs pointed towards another lake, apparently the community’s namesake and the center of the town, but they sped past without turning.  This friend of Bobby’s was a bit of a recluse, or so the old hunter had told them.  His cabin was another forty-five minutes into the countryside, down dirt roads and dark woods. 

‘Secluded’ was turning out to be an understatement. 

-o-o-o-

When they finally arrived at the cabin, it was all any of them could do just to get their stuff through the door and collapse on whatever available bedding there was.  Rumfeld tried his darnedest to claim one of the beds, but Bobby put an end to that pretty quickly.

Dean volunteered for floor duty, snagging one of the sleeping bags Rufus kept stashed in the minimal storage space available in the cabin.  He was so tired he missed Bobby’s suspicious glare as he navigated the small lodge like he’d been there before. 

Jess could care less where she slept, just as long as it wasn’t that damn car.  Sam still gave her the bed (insisted) and folded himself up on an ugly, broken down couch. 

Bobby shoved Rumfeld off the only other cot available and settled down himself.  They weren’t a talkative group that night, and most of them were out within minutes.

-o-o-o-  

Elsewhere, where the air was heavy with the scent of burning, of acid and sulfur and all the horrors of the earth, a meeting was just beginning.  It was an unprecedented gathering; the forces of Hell rarely got together due to the fact that objectives were hard to accomplish when the players wanted to slit each other’s throats.

This time it was different.  This time the ruling heads of Hell had a common goal that outweighed petty power struggles.

There was a middle-aged man, hair thinning and skin just beginning to loosen and wrinkle in age.  He looked like he should be working a farm in his plaid flannel and worn jeans.  Possibly with two kids, a faithful but unhappy wife, and a white picket fence that had become more off-white after so many years without care.

There was a young girl, offset and out of place in such a dark and bleeding space.  She wasn’t even a tweener yet, in a pretty yellow dress with a big white bow in the back.  Her presence was all wrong, but if someone had asked about it, they would assume it was the atmosphere of Hell throwing such disdain and wickedness into what should be an innocent countenance. 

The last of the three was a dapper fellow.  It was an expensive suit he wore in all black.  Even the finely pressed dress shirt was black.  The only splash of color, if it could be called that, was a tie so dark blue it was nearly black itself.  It was perfectly knotted. 

He looked positively miserable, swirling a glass of scotch in his hand with a chunk of ice that never melted, despite the awful heat around them. 

“The Winchesters have gone off grid,” the farmer was saying to the little girl.  She had a pretty little frown on her small face.  “We’re searching for them, but they’re hunters.  They know how to hide.”

“Then flush them out,” the child ordered, crossing her arms over her flat chest.  “They have friends, don’t they?”

The farmer gave a shrug. “Also gone to ground.  Looks like the boys warned ‘em we were coming.”

The man all in black looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, for reasons of sheer boredom as he stared down at his drink with idle interest.  The other two talked around him.

“This wouldn’t have happened if your boy hadn’t given himself away, Azazel.”

“And it’s the reason he’s on the rack, right now.”  The ever-present screams of Hell could easily be heard in their meeting spot.  Those wails could be heard all throughout Hell; they were not escapable.  Just another part of home sweet home.  “Though, he is rather insistent Dean knew beforehand.”

“Impossible,” the girl dismissed flippantly.  

Azazel shrugged.  The dapper fellow swirled his glass miserably before taking a long sip.  The ice clinked against the glass.

“Not entirely impossible,” he finally spoke, voice lilting with a British accent.  “It lines up with what my girl had to say.  Dean Winchester called her up like some two-cent whore.”  He sounded personally insulted.  “Sent her packing and didn’t even pay.  It’s bad form.”

“Forget bad form, Crowley,” the girl snapped, tapping her shiny white dress shoe against the hard, scorched earth that made up the room they stood in.  “He shouldn’t have any form at all.  We spent two decades observing that waste of a meatsuit.  He’s competent as a hunter, fine, but he’s a hothead.  Not exactly the brains of the operation.” 

The little girl rolled her eyes petulantly and concluded, “We know how to deal with him.”

“Clearly not.” In contradiction to his words, Crowley sounded like he couldn’t care one way or another. 

The girl, on the edge of a temper tantrum as her pretty face turned red and puffed like an offended peacock, reigned herself in with practiced control.  “Forget Dean Winchester.  We need to get back on track with Sam.  Move up the schedule if we have to.”

“I’ve still got a few tricks when it comes to the Winchesters,” the farmer said.  His eyes flashed a pale yellow that did horrible things to the face he wore.  “My children will get to them one way or another.”

The girl nodded, satisfied.  “Tell that daughter of yours that I want John Winchester.  I don’t care how she finds him.  We’ll use him to get Sam on course if we have to.”  She scrunched up her nose in distaste.  “I’d rather fry his bitch, but daddy will do.”

Azazel frowned, concern ill-fitting in his yellow pupils.  “We may be passed that, Lilith.  Even if we do kill the girl, Sam may not succumb to revenge.  With how much Dean has interfered already, we may not be able to get him on that path.  Besides, the boy has never been close to his father – that move has even less chance of success.”

“No,” she insisted, stomping her foot.  “That brainless idiot had a fluke moment of intelligence.  Your man is the one that screwed up, Azazel.  The plan is fine.”

“There is another explanation,” the British one spoke up again.  He was staring down at the circling cube of ice.  The others turned to him: the farmer in vague interest, the little girl in clear disdain.  “Upstairs may have caught wind of what we’re doing.”

He paused for a dramatic moment, raising his eyebrows at his companions.  “And I mean the attic, boys and girls.”

Lilith frowned fiercely.  “If that’s true, then we’re screwed.”

“We’ve been watching the gate,” Azazel argued.  “There’s been no movement.  There hasn’t been any in centuries.”

Crowley shrugged.  “I’m only saying it would explain why Dean is suddenly two steps ahead of us.”

The little girl’s eyes narrowed.  “Then we should move.  If angels are getting involved, we move up the timetable.  We take John Winchester now.”

The dapper man raised a cynical eyebrow.  “Isn’t that showing our hand a bit early, love?”

She shook her head, black hair and yellow ribbons tossing side to side.  “No.  We break him, we break the first seal.”

“If he’s the righteous man,” the farmer interrupted.  “Which we already know he most likely isn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter.  We don’t lose anything trying, and we have one less fly to swat.”  The little girl’s eyes gleamed with sinister intent.  “The halos keep busy searching Hell for their righteous man, while we figure out how to drag Dean’s ass down here.  And if Daddy turns out to be Mr. Righteous, then we kill the hothead and pump Sam up while the halos are busy protecting the rest of the seals.”

Azazel hesitated, calculating their options.  He had planned this for far too long to give in to premature fear or rash decisions.  “No.  I don’t want to take John until we’re sure about the angels.  If they invade Hell to save him and he isn’t the righteous man, we’ll have half the force of Heaven down here when we do get Dean.  We’ll need more time than that to break him.”

Crowley scowled down at his glass.  “And if the angels have gotten involved?”

The toothy smile the farmer gave stretched his face.  “Then we go to plan B.”

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 7

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Jess woke from dreams wrought with red eyes, demons made from writhing smoke, and flames that licked at her from every side.  She woke gasping and sweating, immediately sickened by the smell of bacon and the sound of it cooking.

Dean was in the ‘other’ room (what could be called a second room in a one-room cabin) next to the ancient stove, sipping on a beer and cooking up what meager supplies they’d brought with them from Bobby’s.  The boys had pretty much dumped the contents of his fridge into a cooler and called it done.  Which meant every meal after this one would consist of beer, rot-gut whiskey, and more beer. 

And maybe mustard.  She was pretty sure she saw Heinz Yellow in there.

Bobby was out like a light on the cot next to her bunk, snoring up all kinds of a racket.  Jess wondered if it was his demonic breathing that had inspired her vivid nightmares instead of the events of yesterday.  He sure as hell sounded like the devil incarnate.

Sam was sitting upright on the old red thing that passed as a couch only because of how exhausted they’d all been when they’d arrived late last night.  He was fiddling with his laptop, but she could tell from across the room that he was frustrated about something. 

“Morning, Sunshine.”  She turned her attention to Dean, who gave her a surprisingly cheerful smile for someone who had spent the night in a dusty sleeping bag on the hard, uneven floor.  She groaned, pulling herself out of bed to tromp across the cabin and plop down in the creaky armchair beside the coffee table.

She wasn’t a morning person to begin with, and certainly not after the nightmare of a day, and night, and another day that she had had.   At least she wore bitch-face with style.  Sam didn’t even try to say morning to her.  Just pushed his mug of coffee her direction, forfeiting the liquid gold for the sake of the group.

Jess curled up into the chair with the acquired cup and pretended the world didn’t exist for another eleven minutes while Dean finished making up breakfast.

The older Winchester was, indeed, chipper this morning.  He felt great; not only had he not dreamt the night before, but he’d slept well despite dreading the aches he would feel after a night on the hard wood floor.  He’d practically sprung up the next morning in all his gorgeous, young glory.  Being twenty-six again freaking rocked.  And sure, his body had hurt some from the unforgiving boards, but nothing compared to the creaks and groans he was used to suffering just climbing out of a bed every morning.

Youth was so friggin’ wasted on the young.

He cracked the last egg on the wood burning stove (and my god, he forgot how ancient this cabin was) and went about flipping the bacon.  Sam was moaning about something, Jess was focused solely on the warmth between her hands, and Bobby was grumbling that they were all too loud as he finally roused. 

Dean grinned as he listened to the old hunter gripe, flipping the eggs and dividing the bacon between four plates.  He paused, watching the older man as he made his way outside for the facilities.  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Dean glanced to Rumfeld with a raised eyebrow.  The dog was sitting patiently next to the fridge, inching forward every few seconds, tail twitching at the sudden attention.

The hunter snagged a piece of bacon off of Bobby’s plate and snuck it to the dog.  Rumfeld snatched it away and took off with his prize, tailing whipping back and forth in victory.  Sam let out a surprised yelp as the dog jumped onto the couch with him.  His cry turned quickly into disgust as Rumfeld proceeded to slobber all over his half of the furniture.

“Dean!”

The hunter snickered, distributing the eggs and grabbing plates.  He handed one to Jess and the other to Sam, ignoring bitchface # 2 (‘Ew, Dean, gross!’).  Grabbing his own sustenance, he started shoveling food into his mouth as obnoxiously as possible, just for added effect. 

Bobby came back in, snagging his plate off the counter.  He frowned at the single piece of bacon, compared to the others’ three, and the one very happy dog eyeing Sam’s plate.  He decided that was one fight he wouldn’t win, so tucked in to his meal in silence.

“What’s the plan, boys?” he asked between bites, eyeing the brothers.  Jess hadn’t touched her food yet, leaving it on the low table in favor of coffee.  Sam was glaring at Rumfeld, holding his plate protectively to his chest and insisting ‘No’ as if that was going to do a damn thing to deter the dog. 

Ha.

“I want to go into town,” the younger Winchester said, glancing up from his battle to protect his breakfast.  “I want to check for demonic omens, see if we can figure out where the demons are.  This place doesn’t have internet, Bobby.”

The older hunter shrugged at the young hunter’s accusatory whining.  “Don’t think Rufus knows what internet is.”

Sam groaned and Rumfeld took the opportunity to steal half his bacon, almost tipping the entire plate and instigating a slapstick struggle on Sam’s part to keep from losing the rest of his breakfast to the floor.  He glared at the dog who sat, happily chomping.  The giant of a man got up off the couch with his surviving meal and moved to lean against the wall instead.

“I’ll go with you,” Jess spoke up, eyes watching the dog in a detached way that worried Sam a bit.  She turned her gaze to him with a light, weary smile.  “I could use civilization like I could use a shower.”

His answering smile was apologetic and hurting, and she couldn’t look at it for long. 

Dean finished his breakfast with a loud burp, pushing his plate onto the coffee table.  “I’ll go with.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and he shrugged.  “We need a food run.  And I can spend whatever time you two need at a bar.”  He let the patented Dean Winchester smile shine through.  “Maybe I can hustle up some pool.”

“Dude.”

“What?”  He matched Sam’s bitchface (#7: ‘Really, Dean?  Really?’) with one of his own.  “We’re low on cash.”

“It’s not even noon,” his brother groused.  “No one’s going to be playing pool in some dive bar.”

“Oh, Sammy.” Dean’s smile only grew as he stood and stretched.  “You don’t know my people.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Thank God for that.”

Rumfeld chose that moment to make a dash for Jess’s still full plate on the table.  Bobby gave a holler but he took off with the whole thing, eggs and bacon flopping up and down and everywhere as he ran.  Jess cracked a smile and Sam handed the rest of his plate to her.

-o-o-o-

Dean did not hit up the nearest dive bar once they’d gotten into town.  After he dropped Sam and Jess off at a local coffee shop to do their tech-geek thing, he headed to a small diner just off the main drag.  

He ordered a second helping of breakfast (now more like brunch) and a coffee.  He sweet talked a pad of paper and a pen off the haggard waitress, who seemed more generous after a few well-timed compliments and the promise of a good tip.  

Now he was staring down at the pad of paper lying on the table and the ballpoint pen in his hand.  Where the hell did he even start?  

Stalling, he wrote at the top: ‘Original Timeline’.  Then Dean sat, staring at the title for a while (long enough to get a refill on his coffee) before he put his pen to the first line.

11/2/2005: Jess death, Stanford.

Guess starting at the beginning was as good a place as any.

-o-o-o-

              While Sam immediately got to work on checking for demonic omens (and Jess was still not thinking about what that actually entailed), Jess settled down across from him at small table in the coffee shop and opened up her laptop.  

The blinking password field atop her darkened desktop seemed somehow surreal to her.  The icons, still open Word Document for her psych final, and saved browser tabs were even more so.  This laptop belonged to a different person: a Jess that existed last week.   A college kid that didn’t know about the things that went bump in the night.  A twenty-one year old woman who wasn’t being chased by monsters, whose biggest concern was passing Calc next quarter.  

She ran a hand down her face tiredly.  Her skin felt tight across her bones and her eyes would not stop aching despite the six hours of sleep she’d managed last night in that rickety bed.  She’d pulled her own share of late nights and stressful stretches since she’d started at Stanford, but none of them had left her this bone-weary and tired.  Of course, nothing in college had turned her life quite as upside down as finding out the boy sitting across from her hunted monsters.  

Jess logged into the school website and pulled up her e-mails.  She needed to message her advisor; she was going to miss the start of next quarter for sure.  In fact, she was thinking of maybe taking it off entirely to get her head back on straight. That was, of course, if demons weren't still trying to kill her three months from now.  God, she couldn't imagine living this way for months.  But going to classes after all this...it seemed absurd.  It was everything she desperately, desperately wanted – a return to normality, to safety – but somehow now absurd.  

It took her a while to word the e-mail correctly and not sound crazy, or desperate, or in need of some serious counselling.  Instead, she went with the succinct and simple family emergency that would require at least a month off, maybe more.  Her advisor was a pretty damn awesome lady, so she was fairly sure she’d be able to swing her some sort of deal that would keep her on track for her courses.  

She answered a few of the e-mails she had, a couple from teachers, one from the volleyball club that reminded her to also tell them she wouldn’t be back.  It broke her heart to decline a work study she’d worked her ass off to apply to and get, but it couldn’t be helped.  

Finally, she pulled up her Myspace and Facebook accounts.  The latter had only just gone live to non-college students a month ago, so the traffic on it was fairly light compared to her Myspace.  Mostly just club events and campus parties.  Not that she had a lot to respond to on Myspace, either.  She really only had it because all of her friends had bugged her non-stop about it until she’d finally made an account.  

Last week she had been trying to convince Sam to join Facebook so she could change her relationship status and show off her cute boyfriend to the world (the world being all her college friends who already knew they were dating, of course).  Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.  

Her stomach twisted unpleasantly, threatening to ruin the actually halfway decent breakfast Dean had cooked them.  She hadn't expected him to know a spatula from a spoon in the kitchen, but he'd proven a pretty decent chef, much to her surprise (and Sam’s: “Okay, who are you and what have you done with my brother?”) 

She shut down the two social media tabs without looking at them again.  

A ding from her computer meant she had a new e-mail in her personal account.  The only people who e-mailed her there were high school friends and her parents.  Who she should probably send an e-mail to concerning the whole ‘skipping next quarter and I lost my phone so don't call, my boyfriend totally didn’t destroy it so demons couldn’t track us or anything and, oh yeah, I’m not even in California right now but I’m absolutely safe and not in any trouble at all’.  

Her to-do list sucked.

Sure enough, the unread message was from her mom.  She clicked on it, already mentally preparing her reply before she read the first line.

Sam’s search on crop death in the greater Iowa area was abruptly interrupted when his girlfriend launched herself from her seat hard enough to knock it over.  The look of horror on her face had him by her side before the clatter of the chair hitting the floor silenced the coffee shop.  

-o-o-o-

Dean wrote a list.  

And then he crumpled that list up, tossed it to the side, and wrote another list.  And another.  He was on his fourth crumpled up piece of paper when he realized he was going to need more than one list.

There were hunts he needed to recall, witnesses they had to save, information vital to the case they would need, and things he had to remember to avoid.  Like getting electrocuted on a rawhead hunt.  

There were enemies alive now that they’d killed so many years ago.  Weapons and books and information he couldn’t recall enough of to be sure it was reliable.  Events were coming that were paramount to the apocalypse but would seem unrelated, and he had to remember it all.  

They’d need the colt and the knife.  Even if the colt hadn’t worked on the devil, it had killed Azazel.  So they needed it.  It would have to come first, anyway.  He had no idea where Ruby had gotten that knife, so he’d have to wait till she showed her ugly mug before he could take it off her.  And then kill her well and good before she sunk her claws into Sam.

But before that, he was going to have to take care of Azazel.  And Meg.  And Lilith.  The list was insurmountable, and he had to remind himself several times that they’d done it all before, and over a five year period at that.  This didn’t have to happen overnight.  He had time, and he could do this.

It helped chase the panic away, but did nothing for the heavy knot in his stomach.  

He crumpled his fifth paper up and tossed it aside.  This wasn’t working.  There was just too much.

He tore out ten sheets of paper and lined them up in a row.  Then, along the bottom of each he drew a line.  At the end he wrote “5/25/2016: Amara fight” and at the start he rewrote “11/2/2005: Jess dead”.  From there, he filled in the big things he had dates for.  Dad’s death (10:41 am – he could still hear the doc calling it), Sammy’s death and his deal (he’d never forget that date).  When his deal came due (possibly harder to forget than the first one).  The day Cas pulled him out of hell.  The day Sam released Lucifer.  The day Sam and Lucifer went into the cage.  

He went ahead and filled out the rest of the years too, though he furiously told himself those things wouldn’t come to pass – wouldn’t matter.  But they could still be important: things they’d learned that might help them stop this shit show before it ever got started.  People they could go to for help that they hadn’t met this time around.  Or who hadn’t died yet.

Dean was writing down Charlie’s name when the waitress came over to refill his coffee yet again.  She eyed the papers he was frantically drawing across.

“You a writer, hon?”

He looked up at her with a harried expression, startled by her presence though she’d hardly snuck up on him.  “What?”  

“You writing a novel?” she repeated, gesturing with the coffee pot at all his little papers and scribbles.  She gave him an encouraging, if somewhat pitying smile.  “Looks like a depressing one.”

Dean looked back down at the papers as she wandered off to see to other customers’ needs.  Each mark he’d made along the timeline and all the notes at the top were generally death dates.  He swallowed tightly at the amount of loss he was looking at in the next few years.  

His brain short-circuited for a minute, coming to a full stop.  

Writing.  Chuck.  

He’d forgotten about the damn Prophet of the Lord.

Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of the man as the writer in a while, not since discovering he was a hell of a lot more.   Fucking bastard.  Dean gave the idea of going to God for help all of about three seconds of consideration before shoving the thought and the hope that came with it far, far away.  He knew better than to think that asshat of a dad was ever going to step in.  

It had taken his own imminent death to even make him consider helping them with Amara.  And he still refused to apologize or take any blame for the damn apocalypse – or anything that had happened after.  No, ‘Chuck’ wasn’t going to help him here.

He was on his own.  

The hunter moved on to trying to fill in details.  In the lines above the timeline, he listed everything he could remember happening in between major events.  He wasn’t sure of the order of most of the stuff, but the hardcoded dates along the timeline helped.

He knew Meg went after their friends for the colt.  He knew she tried to trap them to get to John Winchester.  Both happened before his dad’s death, obviously.   At least one was after they got the colt from Elkins, though he couldn’t remember if the old hunter had ate it before or after Meg showed up the first time.  He was pretty sure it was after.  They’d seen Dad at least once by the time they met up in Colorado over the vampire nest. That meant all of it happened in 2006.  He marked Meg trapping John with a little ‘1’, Elkins with a ‘2’, and Meg killing their friends with a ‘3’.  

It was a start.

He’d gotten as far as Dad’s death and the car accident when his phone rang.  He was still missing huge gaps, and he could only remember a handful of the hunts he and Sam had done (and almost no definitive dates to pair with them), but he’d written them down all the same.  It would have to be enough going forward.

“What’s up, Sammy?” he answered the phone without looking.  He frowned at what he heard over the line.  “What?  Where are you?  Stay there, I’m coming to you.”

He snapped the phone shut, gathered the dozen sheets of paper and shoved them and the pad of paper they’d come out of into his jacket before heading out of the diner.  

-o-o-o-

A demon had Jess’s parents.  

Sam had met Frank and Anne Moore for the first time four months ago when they had visited their daughter and her semi-serious boyfriend they'd heard non-stop about for almost a year.  The small group had gone into San Francisco for a day of touring and a wonderful dinner down on the Embarcadero.

He’d liked them immediately, despite being mostly preoccupied with not making a fool of himself.  This was the first ‘meet the parents’ he’d ever had to face outside of that one Thanksgiving at Stephanie Belmont’s house back in sixth grade.  And while he was definitely nervous back then, it was nothing compared to how his leg shook under the table all throughout dinner. 

Jess’s hand on his thigh certainly had more of a calming effect than Stephanie’s had as a kid.

Frank was an avid fisherman, with his own boat and lobster license too.  He worked in construction management and owned a small, but very successful company in Northeastern Boston.  Anne was retired, and spent much of her free time volunteering at the hospital where she had spent fifteen years of her Administrative career.  The two were somehow still madly in love, had date nights once a week, and we're infamous in the family for their bouts of public dancing (particularly on date nights).  

Nothing on earth except a demon could make Frank Moore's face take on such hideous glee while he held a knife to his sobbing wife's throat.

Jess hadn't been able to look at the photo attached to the email since the coffee shop, and had eventually left the safety of Rufus' cabin for some fresh air when the boys and Bobby wouldn't stop talking about it.

Not that it mattered.  She'd told them in no uncertain terms they were going.  They were going to Boston and she'd give the demons whatever they wanted and they would save her parents.  Neither of the brothers had argued or even so much as blinked at the demand.  

"Of course we're going," Dean had said before Sam could.  

That had been that.  The details of it didn't matter to her, and she couldn't be in the same room with them has they hashed it out and wasted time her parents didn't have.

The delay was about how to go.  Dean was insistent they drive. And only partially because he hated flying and had only successfully managed it twice now.  Mostly it was because how the hell were they going to get an arsenal of weapons through security?

But Sam insisted they didn’t need their gear.  He was new to the demon-fighting game, he freely admitted it, but what could they use against a demon other than holy water and exorcisms?

Bobby didn’t like the way Dean’s knuckles tightened on the table, like he was restraining himself from saying anything.

It didn’t stop him from saying all sorts of things, of course.  Like how bullets might not kill the damn things, but they sure as hell slowed them down.  (They really didn’t, but Dean didn’t like going into a hunt without at least one weapon).

That was the point where Jess left the cabin.

In the end, they decided to fly.  Whitefish was remote enough as it was without trying to drive halfway across the country.  The trip would take them at least two days, and none of them had had enough sleep in the last three to safely traverse the country and take on a demon at the end of the road.  

If they flew out that night, they’d be there in the morning and could hopefully catch some sleep on the plane.

Bobby didn’t like it much either, but he could bend to reason and was a fair bit more flexible than Dean Winchester would ever be.  He promised to make some calls and get them at least a minor arsenal and a car for when they landed.  It appeased Dean somewhat but left him with nothing else to fight accept his abhorrent fear of flying (which Sam had easily deduced (for the second time) and still found moments to tease him, despite the situation)

So that afternoon Bobby drove Rumfeld into town and checked him into a dog boarding ranch under a fake name, a fraudulent credit card, and some bullshit excuse of last minute vacation for the girl at the front counter.  He didn’t feel good about it – felt worse at the look his buddy gave him as they dragged him into the back – but it was what it was.

They left for the Kalispell airport that evening.

-o-o-o-

Sam and Bobby got some sleep on the plane.  Dean spent the flight trying to put dents into the armrests with his fingertips.  Jess stared out the window at the passing lights far below them and focused her not inconsiderable brain power on not thinking anything at all, lest she spiral into the panic that awaited her at the endless horrors that could be happening to her parents.

-o-o-o-

Dean was a stressed out mess by the time they landed, and only barely managed not to fall to his knees and kiss the ground.  At least this plane didn’t almost crash.  It was a lot better when they didn’t almost crash.

As promised, Bobby had contacted a couple hunter friends of his in the Northeast, and they agreed to meet the group with a clean car they could use and some weapons on loan for the job.  Neither of the two hunters offered their assistance, and the group didn’t ask. 

They dumped their duffel bags into the back of the pickup and climbed into the old Ford truck.  Dean had fidgeted all the way through security as the officers eyed him and his four empty canteens, two rosaries, two bibles, one gigantic tomb older than all four of them combined (and was there some reason the Key of Solomon couldn’t come in an edition smaller than a freaking flat screen TV?), and draw string bag filled to the brim with rock salt.  Sam had elbowed him more than once and muttered under his breath to chill out before he got them all thrown in Gitmo.

Jess gave them her parents’ address, and they headed out.  No one talked much half hour drive.  Dean said he had a plan, Sam was fidgety about the lack of details, Bobby had given up trying to get in the middle of the two of them, and Jess didn’t want to hear it. 

They arrived at the somewhat secluded 1228 Quail Road in Andover, MA at 9:28 that morning.  Dean pulled the car off to the side of the street as far from sight as he could and they all stared at the house set back in the wooded area with trepidation. 

It didn’t look like a demon had moved in.  Then again, it never did.

“How do we know they’re in there?” Sam asked.  There was a car in the driveway, but it wasn’t like demons needed motor transportation.

“They’re in there.”  Dean sounded completely sure, and Jess glanced at him.  She tried to take comfort in his confidence, but only succeeded in miniscule amounts.

Sam didn’t want to ask what his brother was thinking, not in front of Jess, because he didn’t want her to know that there was a high likelihood this wouldn’t go in their favor.  He may not have faced a demon before (Brady didn’t count, that demon was already in a devil-proofed trunk by the time he got involved), but he had grilled Dean and Bobby every chance he’d got in the last four days.  He needed to know what they were up against. 

And now he was pretty sure they were screwed.  There was no way they’d be able to take down Frank before he killed Anne in retaliation.  Or just because he felt like it.  He didn’t even need to be near her to do it – he could snap her neck from across the room.  The thought made him sick to his stomach, but he sucked it up and shoved it deep down. 

“So what’s this plan you say you have?”  Bobby fiddled with his shotgun in the back seat, loading it up with shells.  Beside him, Jess eyed the weapon nervously, despite the fact that they’d already had the discussion concerning a strict ‘no shooting the parents’ ground rule.

“It’s rock salt, Jess,” Dean had answered, and she’d found it odd that it may have been the first time he’d ever actually called her by name.  “It’ll sting like a bitch, but it’s not fatal.”

“But it’ll kill the…demon, right?”

Sam had shaken his head while Dean looked reluctant to answer.  “It’ll slow him down a bit.”

“Piss ‘em off, s’more likely.”

In response to Bobby’s gruff input, Sam had wrapped his hand around hers, thumb rubbing against her skin in what was supposed to be comforting circles.  “It’ll keep him distracted – away from you and your mom.”

Jess nodded, but hardly looked convinced.  It took Bobby assuring her they’d use the guns as a last resort only (and giving Dean a pointed look as he did so) that finally settled the manner. 

Now Dean was watching Jess in the rear view mirror.  “You said it’s an old house, right?”

She nodded and listed off the near-ancient date of its construction.  The house had been in her mom’s family for years, and though the Moores had done some serious remodeling over the years, they’d kept the historical bits the same.  They said they liked the old feel and the history.  Anne was proud of her Bostonian roots, and more than proud to own a house with two and a half centuries of history in its bones.

Including the sprinkler system from the early forties that Dean seemed oddly interested in.  Jess’s great-grandfather had been a paranoid nutball.  He’d been incredibly proud of the newly installed system back in the day.  Called it a marvel of technology and security.  He used to tell any who’d listen that most homeowners could only dream of such safety measures.

He was also the reason there was an old rotted out bunker buried somewhere in the backyard with enough SPAM inside to last through 2046.

“Alright, then we spike the water.”  Bobby and Sam turned sharp eyes to Dean and he grinned at them.  “The house is on well water, yeah?  We throw a Rosary in there, purify the water, and then we set the house of fire.”

“What?” Jess shrieked and the hunter winced.

“Okay, I didn’t mean on fire.  I meant we trigger the sprinklers.”

“And the water that comes out would be holy,” Sam added, sounding almost breathless as he thought through his brother’s plan.  That….That wasn’t a bad idea.  The water would damage a demon enough to at least distract it – at least long enough for Jess to get her mom out of there, maybe even start an exorcism.  It didn’t guarantee anything; Sam had little hope it would be enough to do the job alone. 

That was what Winchester luck was for.  It just needed a starting place, and holy water sounded like as good as any.

Bobby was staring at Dean again with narrowed eyes.  Where the hell was the kid getting this from?  Dean Winchester had always been a hell of a hunter, just like his daddy, but neither of them had won that title from cleverness.  Both of ‘em earned it out of sheer stubbornness. 

But it was a good plan, so he sat back and said nothing.  He’d save that battle for another time.

-o-o-o-

They went in guns blazing. 

Well, Dean and Bobby went in guns blazing. 

Well, Dean and Bobby went in guns blazing with exception to the whole ‘we won’t shoot your dad, we promise’ bit.  So really, they went in more like kicking down doors and shouting obscenities once Jess triggered the sprinklers.

Sam gave her a leg up (a pair of six foot tall shoulders more accurately) to pull herself onto the back patio roof about five minutes before the whole rescue operation was going down.  From there, she slid her old bedroom window open and slipped inside.  It was a trick she’d done a hundred times as a teenage girl sneaking out after curfew and back in before dawn. 

A lifetime ago, Sam would have teased her for her delinquent days and she would have slid right up to him and whispered that she’d show him something delinquent alright.

Today, she was pulling a lighter out of her pocket and holding it up to the old pipes and metal sprinkler hanging above her childhood bed.  For a moment, nothing happened and her racing heart practically stopped beating.  Then water exploded everywhere and she dropped back to the mattress, face and hair soaked and the rest following as she heard the sprinklers kick in out in the hall too. 

Enraged screaming followed.

Jess threw herself off the bed, the time for stealth long gone, and broke out into the hall just Dean and Bobby kicked in the front door.  True to their word, they didn’t shoot her dad.  Dean fired off a warning shot aimed more at the ceiling than anything else.  Jess rounded the top of the stairs and barreled down almost to the point of falling.

She skidded into the living room in time to see her father facing off against the two hunters just as Dean cocked his shotgun for a second go around and leveled it at Frank.  Jess didn’t have time to pray that he’d stick to his word, and instead focused on her mom.  Anne was huddled over by the sofa, her arms protectively covering her face and her shoulders shaking.

Jess slid to her knees as water pattered down on the ancient hard wood floors.  The sprinklers had an automatic shut off after several minutes, but already it was starting to pool on the ground.  Her mother was going to be pissed about the water damage when all this settled down. 

“Mom!”  She wrapped her hands around her mother’s shoulders, shaking the older woman gently.  “Mom, it’s Jess.  We have to get out of here; you have to come with me.”

Her mother trembled under her hands, but raised her face to her daughter and Jess realized their mistake immediately.

Anne’s face was red and blistered, her eyes a deadly black, and the grin that stretched her skin, demented.

Jess couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even yell.  She snatched her hands away like she’d been burned, and with the gleam in her mom’s once kind eyes, she might as well have been.

“Hello, Jessie,” the thing hissed, breaking into a laugh even as she lunged for her daughter.

Jess went down hard beneath her mom, body still rooted stalk still.  Only her mom called her that.  Everyone else called her Jess, but Anne Moore had stuck to calling her daughter the same thing she’d called her in the hospital nursery unit twenty-one years ago, and every afternoon at the park down the street, and on every trip to the mall, and even still through teary-eyed goodbyes on her first day of college.

Jesus Christ, her mom was in there.

And that’s when Jess started screaming.  She kicked and pushed and shoved at the woman that was and was not her mom, who didn’t move an inch other than to pull back and raise a knife – the knife her father held to her throat in that wretched photo – high above her head.  Jess watched in terror as her mom tried to kill her.

She screamed, but blocked Anne’s swing with her arm.  Jess gasped as the blade sliced through skin and muscle in her fumbled attempt at self-preservation.  The blood-tipped knife angled downward towards her heart instead as she wrapped her fingers around her mother’s wrist.  This wasn’t her mom – this thing was far stronger than the fifty-six year old yoga enthusiast who frequented the gym more for the social hour and lunch date with her girlfriends than the actual exorcise.  Jess’s muscles ached under the strain and her whole arm shook as she kept the knife away from her chest by inches only.

There was a blur of movement to her right and then Anne was suddenly gone in a spectacular tackle by her six-and-a-half foot giant of a boyfriend.  The small woman did not go down easy, though, despite her opponent’s size.  She rolled like a nimble gymnast half her age, coming to a crouch with a barbaric hiss and a sneer at the Winchester boy. 

Jess scrambled back, chest heaving from fear and exertion.  Sam kept her behind him with an outstretched arm, a canteen in the other.  He began reciting an exorcism, keeping Anne at bay with the holy water anytime she tried to get too close.  She still had the knife, gripped tightly in her hand as the two circled each other.

When force-throwing Sam across the room and over the back of the couch wasn’t enough to stop the exorcism, Anne let out a terrible screech.  In a single movement, she spun and threw the knife hilt over blade before flinging herself from Anne Moore’s body in a terrible trail of black smoke.

Jess screamed, her first thought for Sam and my god, she was going to watch her boyfriend take a knife to the gut.  But when the blade flew past Sam, missing him by several feet, to embed itself in her father’s side, she lost it.  She didn’t care that there was a demon inside of him – that was her father her mother had just stabbed.

Dean caught her across the middle as she hurdled herself towards the demon, who stared down at the knife as if it was nothing more than a nuisance.  His body was already twitching and jerking with the exorcism, and wisps of black smoke leaked from the bleeding wound.  Frank Moore looked up from the blade to his little baby girl as she kicked and screamed in the arms of the hunter.

He grinned as he opened his mouth and smoked out of the dying meatsuit.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 8

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean was an idiot.  He was a waste of time and space and god-damn angelic effort.  He was useless, was what he was.

For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he’d been so stupid as to think it would only be one demon.  As if he hadn’t dealt with the bastards long enough and often enough to know that they were cruel, and rarely ever simple.

He’d let himself be lulled by the security of 2005.  Two thousand and fucking five, when demon possessions weren’t handed out like condoms at a college party.  He should have known better.  Hell was rearing for an apocalypse, and this was Azazel they were up against.  Like hell he’d have sent in just one demon.

Dean resisted his dire need to hit something for the sixth time since they’d arrived at the hospital. He’d have to leave soon, if only to find a wall nurses wouldn’t kick him out for punching a hole through.  The hunter scrubbed a hand over his face and chanced a look down the hall.

Jess was sitting, numb and unmoving, in one of the waiting halls.  Her forearm had been stitched and wrapped tightly in white, sterile gauze.  Sam sat next to her, his bean stalk frame slumped.  He held her hand and neither of them said a word.

Dean knew what was coming.  Even in a new timeline, in a hospital he’d never been in after a fight he’d never fought first time around, he could see what was coming.

So he pushed off the wall and headed in the opposite direction.

This was going to end, Jess and her family were going to be safe, and he damn well knew what was needed to do it.

-o-o-o-

“I can’t do this.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.  Or, rather, she had meant to say it – had been meaning to say it for almost a week – but she hadn’t meant to say it like that.  Just blurt it out, in the middle of a silent hospital hallway, with Sam sitting next to her while they waited to find out if she still had a father.

Frank had gone into surgery the minute they’d arrived, tires screeching to a halt outside the Emergency entrance.  The car they’d borrowed from those other guys was a mess of blood now.  She wondered with detached concern who would clean it.

Anne was in a room of her own, sleeping off the sedation administered shortly after they arrived.  She’d been hysterical, almost unable to speak.  The EMTs that met them at the door said words like ‘shock’ and ‘acute distress’.  When the doctors learned it was her husband being escorted into surgery with a knife in his gut and his blood on her hands, they’d given her a sedative and decided to keep her for 24-hour observation. 

They still hadn’t heard anything about Frank yet.

Sam’s hand tightened around hers.  “I know.”

She stared at the scrapes on his knuckles and the patches of gauze nurses had taped over the wounds deep enough to need cleaning.  Jess tried, she really tired, to find comfort in the fingers wrapped around hers.  She used to love how small her hand felt in his.  How long his fingers were entwined around hers.  It had been a silly thought, like a little girl daydreaming, but she’d always known the photograph of their clasped hands and a set of matching rings would be her favorite picture from their wedding day. 

Sam was suddenly in front of her, crouched at eye level and holding both her hands in his.  He was looking at her like she was the only light in his world; a light he’d knowingly extinguished.

“I know,” he said again, and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers.  Their fingers, still entangled, lay unmoving in her lap.  He didn’t say anything else; she didn’t need him to.   

They sat like that until the tears finally came and she sobbed into his chest for everything they’d lost, and what she might lose still.

-o-o-o--

Bobby left a couple hours after Dean did.  He told Sam he’d be on call if they needed anything – anything at all – but this fight wasn’t over yet and they’d need eyes on the books if they were going to figure out why demons were gunning for them.  Sam, who had taken the conversation a few feet away from Jess to try and give her some seclusion from it all, only nodded tiredly. 

The old hunter dug into his pocket and pulled out a worn, crinkled business card to hand to Sam.  It was for a psychiatrist.

“She knows all about the life,” Bobby mumbled with a half shrug.  Sam stared at him in surprise for a moment, but he supposed there were people out there – normal people – who learned about the things that went bump in the night and decided to help others without turning into nomadic, revenge-driven hunters hell bent on a life of death and loneliness.  And if there were, leave it to Bobby to know of them.  “She ain’t local, but least they’ll have someone they can talk to.”

Sam had to blink back the tears that filled his eyes.   Usually, he was able to keep it together better, but this really was the week from hell and he tried not to beat himself up too terribly for it.  Bobby made a grunt that probably meant ‘come here, son’ before he enveloped the younger Winchester in a tight hug.

“Thank you, Bobby,” Sam whispered and the older hunter clapped him supportively on the back like his father never did. 

Bobby hopped a plane back to Whitefish a couple hours later, collected his junker and his dog, and headed back to Sioux Falls and the stacks of books waiting for him there.   

-o-o-o--

Where are you?

Sam stared at the screen of his phone, awaiting Dean’s reply, as he tapped his foot against the leg of the hospital chair in a move of anxiety, tiredness, worry, and guilt that perfectly summed up how he was feeling internally.  Frank had gotten out of surgery an hour ago, and the doctors had thankfully reported he would make a full, but slow, recovery.  Jess was in his room now with her mom.

Meanwhile, now that one crisis was partially resolved, Sam had a million more to juggle.  Truth be told, over the last five days he’d felt like someone had cut both his arms off, morbidly added them to the pile of things he was supposed to balance, and then stared expectantly. 

On top of his brother acting downright weird, demons apparently wanted his girlfriend dead and his head on a stick (or something equally confounding), Jess’s parents had been attacked and the family was irreparably scarred for life, the five-day road trip from exhaustive hell had culminated in the realization that Sam was likely never going back to school nor marrying the girl of his dreams, and now Dean had up and left with nothing more than a worrisome text about having a plan to ‘fix everything.’

He honestly wasn’t sure what was holding back the panic attack and instinct to find a hole, curl into a ball and spiral into madness.  Sam had a feeling that dam, whatever it was, was about to break. 

Everything hurt, from his body to his soul to his mind. 

There was an ache in his heart he couldn’t ease up on, knowing as he’d known for days now that this was the end of the road for him and Jess.  He couldn’t ask her to keep living a life on the run.  He couldn’t ask her to face death because demons had an unexplainable hard-on for him.  And he had no clue how he was going to get her or her family out of it. 

He would find a way, no matter what it took.  She deserved so much better than this.

But he couldn’t deal with that right now.  Maybe it was his brother’s influence back in his life, but he packed up all the hurt and chaos that came with that knowledge and pushed it aside.  Unlike his brother, he would deal with it later, but right now it was just one of the many things he had to fix, and he couldn’t work on all of them at once without falling into that spiraling hole of madness he was barely keeping at bay.

So he focused on the Dean Crisis. Well, one of the Dean Crises.  Actually, the least troublesome of the multiple crises his brother was currently spawning. 

Driving to CO text u when i get there

Sam frowned as his phone buzzed with the reply.  Why the hell was his brother halfway across the country?  Not to be selfish, but he could sort of use some damn family support right now. 

Gonna fix it Sammy i swear

The younger of the Winchester boys let out a frustrated sound as he stared at his phone.  Nothing in that text boded well for them.  Dean had a martyr complex that could rival a damn saint, only with a fraction of the likelihood of ending up in the Catholic Hall of Fame.  God only knew what trouble .he was getting himself into in his effort to bear the weight of the whole damn world alone. 

Sam didn’t have a clue what had been going on with his brother for the last week, but it was like that weight had increased a hundred fold.  Not to mention he was acting as if he’d already failed.  Not that Sam knew what it was he could have possibly done, given none of this was his fault, but he knew the signs of a guilt-torn Dean.  It was like the brother he had always known, only cranked up to about a thousand and minus the protective mask of crude humor, sexual prowess, and arrogance. 

It was baffling, and all Sam could come up with was that Dean had seen something. 

As far as the younger Winchester could hazard, Dean’s visions were a lot stronger than his own.  They had a clarity to them that Sam wasn’t getting.  His always ended in a pounding skull and a mess of blurry images and leftover emotional stimuli.  Dean walked around like he knew the damn future and it didn’t cost him a thing.

Well, other than the world’s biggest (and heaviest) medal for martyrdom.

Sam was stubbornly ignoring the twinge of jealousy that niggled the darkest parts of his brain anytime he thought of the differences in their new psychic abilities.  That was a mini-crisis he would happily lock in a closet and never address again.

Hows Frank?

He sighed, compartmentalized once more, and texted his brother back.

Okay.  Out of surgery.  Why Colorado?

Sam waited impatiently for his brother to text him back.  His foot resumed its tapping against the cheap metal of the chair.

Driving text u later

He had to work really, really hard not to throw the phone at the wall opposite him.  Award-worthy hard.   His brother was an asshole.  Still, Sam could picture the damn grin he had on his face in the front seat of the Impala, glancing at the screen of his phone every couple of minutes, awaiting Sam’s bitchface reply.

Despite everything, he figured some things never did change.

The younger Winchester took a deep breath, chose to find solace in that small thing, and texted back exactly what he knew his brother was expecting.

Jerk.

Bitch

The speed of his reply only confirmed that Dean had already had the damn thing typed out in expectation of sending.  His brother was an asshole.  But, one of the things that came with martyrdom was affection, apparently.

Sam closed his phone and decided that crisis, while confusing and probably going to bite him in the ass in the very near future, could be downgraded to orange.  He had more pressing red alerts to deal with now.

-o-o-o-

They tried to talk once more, the first night after Jess’s dad pulled through surgery.  They sat in their borrowed car outside the Moore family home (the blood mysteriously gone from the backseat, but Jess didn’t ask and suspected Bobby had something to do with it).  Sam drove Anne and Jess back once visiting hours ended.  Her mom quietly got out of the car and headed inside, hesitating only for a moment at the door.

Jess looked desperately like she wanted to follow, to support her poor mother who was struggling with the aftermath of trauma, but she stayed where she was.  Bobby had already been back earlier in the afternoon while Sam stayed at the hospital, to try and mop up the water and clean the blood off the living room floor.  Sam joined him as soon as Frank was declared stable, and helped the older hunter finish the cleanup and secure the house from future attacks.  Both men were adamant with Mrs. Moore that no demons were ever getting into that house again. 

The water damage was going to need some addressing, but that was hardly her primary concern.  She insisted she wanted to go home rather than a hotel. 

“I never wanted this to happen,” Sam whispered in the silence of the car.  He looked at Jess, all the pain and anguish that he’d brought her summed up in the guilt on his face. 

She leaned forward, cutting him off before he could stumble through the speech he’d rehearsed a million times since the hallway.  Gentle hands cupped either side of his neck and she kissed him across the face.  Soft, desperate, sad lips pressed to his own and to his cheek, and his forehead, and his nose. 

Jess was crying by the time she pulled away, thumbs stroking across Sam’s skin.  “I know, Sam.  Of course, I know.”

He was crying too and he buried his head into her neck. 

-o-o-o--

Two days later, Frank was declared fit enough for release and Sam was waiting with Jess at the hospital to drive him back home.  She was helping him out of bed and into a wheelchair with the assistance of a nurse when Dean finally showed back up. 

He hadn’t texted much over the last forty eight hours, obstinately refusing to answer any of Sam’s questions. 

“Sorry I was gone so long, man,” Dean immediately said upon spotting Sam and jogging down the hallway towards Frank’s room.  He had a rectangular, wooden carrier box in his hands and he looked like shit.

Sam was still pissed, but seeing the dark bags under his brother’s eyes, the stress lines pulling his skin tight and the couple days of growth on his chin, he was a little less pissed.  He’d done the math; to drive to Colorado and end up back in Boston with the Impala meant Dean had flown to Montana first.  Which meant he’d not only gotten on a plane, alone and most likely beating his terrified self up, but then spent almost forty five hours straight driving all over the country. 

He looked it, too. 

“We’re gonna keep her safe.  We’ll make it right.”  Dean handed over the box with a firm nod and an air that went past determined and straight into desperation and guilt.  Sam added it to the list of things to address when they got around to that whole ‘this isn’t your fault’ and ‘oh, by the way, what the hell is going on with you?’ talk.

He lifted the lid with no small amount of curiosity at what had driven his brother across the continent.  Propped within was an old style revolver.  Like, Old West, Cowboys and Indians era revolver alongside five numbered, silver bullets.

Sam lowered the lid with a quick glance around the hallway, before leveling his brother with a raised brow.  “A gun?”

“Not just any gun, Sammy,” Dean said with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.  He tilted his head in half a nod as he corrected, “Sam.”

The younger Winchester eyed his brother and tried to decide if ‘he’s completely lost it’ was umbrella enough to encompass everything that was currently going on. 

-o-o-o-

That night, Sam said goodbye to the Moores once they got Frank settled in the house.  Anne had gone to town calling floor specialists and her contractor (yes, apparently he was on speed dial in her cell).  The new floors were coming in next week, and the current ones had been treated temporarily to stem off further damage.  All the susceptible furniture was sent out or cleaned in house.  The place was half chaos, half terrifying efficiency and spoke to the frantic, desperate fear lying just underneath the surface.

When he had both of them before him, Anne in a nervous fidget as she cleaned things here and there and Frank sitting tired in a dining room chair, he apologized.  There weren’t words in the English language to make up for the last seventy-two hours, but he tried.  He tried to tell them all of this was because of him, that he’d put them, their daughter, in terrible danger and he’d never meant to.  That he loved her, and had so badly wanted to love them too.

Frank grabbed him before he got more than a sentence and a half out and pulled him into a fierce hug, despite Anne shrieking to be careful with his stitches.  The older man didn’t say a word, just held firm to the Winchester’s back.  Sam was crying again by the time he pulled away and he wiped at his face as he tried not to break down in front of this family that had faced so much because of him.

Anne placed a gentle hand on his forearm.  She hadn’t spoken much to him since that night, and he understood why.  He could see it in her eyes.  Anne Moore was not a cruel woman, but she didn’t want him near her family.  It hurt to see it, to know it.  She tried her best to mask it, intrinsically not wanting to blame her own fear and pain on the young man before her, but she couldn’t hide it all.  Sam didn’t hold it against her. 

He’d put her family in danger and would continue to do so if he stayed.

So he told them both that he and his brother had a plan, and that if all went well it was the last they’d see of him.  Jess squeezed his hand, her face a brittle mask.  Anne started crying silently, but nodded at his words.  Frank held out his hand, the kind of serious glint in his eye that meant there weren’t words that could be spoken. 

Sam walked out of the Moore house with the weight of the world buried in a black hole in his chest that hurt worse than any wound he’d ever gotten hunting.  He had really wanted to be a part of their family.  More than he’d ever wanted anything. 

Dean was waiting for him in the Impala.

-o-o-o--

They were, once more, headed to a crossroads.  Jess insisted once more that she come with (Sam hadn’t argued very hard: she needed to see this through as much as any of them) and directed them to a slightly less populated area to the north that had a couple dirt roads and fields that might culminate in a crossroad. 

Sam went for the spray can in the trunk, but Dean shook his head.

“No trap this time.”  Knowing that would surely start an argument, he cut it off at the head.  “We already ganked one of his demons.  He isn’t gonna be stupid enough to show up in the center of the crossroads.” 

“Who?”

But Dean didn’t answer, instead getting out the necessary items for summoning a deal demon.  He finished off the crossroads box with his ID and a small scrap of paper with something written on it that Sam didn’t catch before closing the lid tight and heading to the center of the roads. 

Jess waited by the car once more as the boys buried their second cigar box that week.

The wait was quiet and tense, but lacked the same suspense present during their last summoning.  Jess, who rightly should have still been freaking out even seven days later, was calm and quiet.  Numb. 

Dean was a solid rock with the reassuring weight of the colt in his hand.  Sam was less sure, but held a stiff, defensive stance of his own.  He was ready to take on whatever came at them, fidgeting nervously at the lack of trap.

“You’ve got some set of balls on you, Winchester.  I’ll give you that.”

The three humans spun at the new voice, an English drawl that was simultaneously lazy and dangerous.  To the right of the Impala stood a short, portly man in an expensive suit and crimson tie.  His hands were tucked in his pants pockets and he had an incredibly bored expression on his face that masked the indignation and surprise beneath.

Jess immediately moved away from the demon, though he hadn’t appeared near enough to her to be a threat.  At least, not a physical one.  Still, she moved quickly behind the two hunters, much to Sam’s relief. 

“Crowley,” Dean greeted, and Sam looked at him like he really had lost it.  “We want to talk with the yellow eyed demon.”

“Oh, do you now?”  The Brit’s eyebrows rose in amusement.  He looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to humor the hunter or snap his neck.  “Well summon him then, you bloody gnats.”

“Yeah, we summoned you.”

“I noticed.”  The demon’s voice was dry and his left eye twitched as he looked to the side.  He shoved his hands in his suit pockets and Sam got the distinct impression he was trying not to clench his fists.  Instead, he let out a dramatic sigh.  “Very well.  What are you offering in exchange?”

“Oh, you’re doing this one for free.”  Dean lifted his gun, his aim true.  “We’ll wait.”   

Crowley’s bored expression turned ugly as he took in the gun and immediately recognized it for the Colt.  Bollocks.  “Any particular reason I shouldn’t kill you and the happy couple?  Take the shiny toy gun for myself?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder.  “You can try, but I’m a quick shot.  And I’ve heard demons have this nasty habit of saving their own skin.”

The king of the crossroads regarded the hunter with true, though carefully hidden, bafflement.  He’d heard from his own girl that Dean was up on the take in ways they’d never predicted.  Azazel had said the same of his brat, but it wasn’t like Crowley really believed them.  The older Winchester was a mook.  An angelic condom mook maybe, but still a mook. 

Besides, demons lied.  They lied most often when it was their hide on the rack.

But this, this was irreparable proof staring him down the barrel of a limited edition, supernatural-deluxe, Texas Patterson 1836.  This was new. 

And where the hell had they gotten that bloody gun?

“Hm,” he hummed as he exuded nonchalance and a proper air of kingliness.  Rolling on the balls of his feet, he considered the hunter’s proposition as one would select a fine steak from a butcher.  Took his time in doing so, too, just to see Dean’s itchy-trigger finger. 

The shaking leaf of a thing behind the two men caught his eye and the corner of his mouth quirked upward.  “Are you sure you want ole’ Yellow Eyes here?  Seems to me you haven’t thought this through, boys.” 

Sam’s glare turned hostile as he stepped fully in front of Jess.  The hammer of the Colt cocked back under his brother’s thumb.

“Alright, alright,” Crowley conceded, raising his hands placating.  “No need to get violent, gentlemen.  I’ll fetch your Mommy Killer.”

If they hadn’t had a history – wouldn’t have a history – Dean might have shot him.

He lowered the gun as the demon disappeared in the blink of an eye.  Turning to Jess, Sam placed both of his hands on her shoulders to reassure himself of her presence as much as comfort her.  She was biting her lip and refusing to look at where the demon had been, but otherwise stood strong within her lover’s arms.  Dean turned away to give them a moment. 

Crowley popped back into existence in the center of the crossroads without so much as a confetti bomb.  By his side was Azazel, wrapped in the body that Dean would kill him in. 

But not tonight.

“You know what this is?”  He held up the revolver and pale, yellow eyes trained on it with a look of distaste.  Dean took it as the affirmation it was, then tossed the gun to Sam.

Jess screamed as he pressed the muzzle flush to his temple. 

“You want me?” Sam asked, eyes never leaving the demon who had killed his mother, who had planned to kill his girlfriend.  The creature that had ruined his life twice over.  “Then Jess is out.  Her parents, her extended family, anyone who so much as knows her name.  They’re untouchable.”

The demon tilted his head, eyes glinting as he evaluated the situation before him with as much curiosity as caution. 

Dean held Jess back with an arm, keeping his eyes trained on the two demons.  There were so many ways this could go south, and he was going against every protective instinct carved into him over the years by handing his brother that gun. 

Because damn if they didn’t both want to put a bullet between Azazel’s eyes.  Dean knew everything he had done, everything he would do.  Sam knew enough to want him just as dead.  They couldn’t, no matter how much they wanted to.  No matter how justified they’d be.  Tonight had to be about the Moore family; they had to procure their safety.  If the brothers killed the bastard now, they’d have an army of demons out for revenge in the worst ways possible.  Jess’s family wouldn’t make it through the week.

For his part, Crowley looked astounded as he glanced between the two parties like a tennis match.  It was a damn beautiful sight to be sure and one Dean might have enjoyed in a less dire moment.  He’d sure treasure it the next time he had to deal with the smarmy bastard.

Azazel was far more composed, and exuded danger.  If he was relying on appearance alone, Dean might be worried he wouldn’t take the bait.  Those pale yellow irises were daring Sam to pull the trigger, just to see if he would.  It was only because the older Winchester knew the end goal that they could even pull this off.  Hell needed Sammy alive, but Dean knew he wouldn’t hesitate to pull that trigger if it meant saving Jess.

And Azazel knew it to.

Sam’s hand was steady even has his legs shook, standing for the first time in front of the thing that he and his brother and his dad had spent the last twenty-two years hunting down.  Sam’s whole life, summed up in a middle-aged man with yellow eyes standing in the center of a crossroads.  “There’s no bringing me back from this.  So she’s out and I keep breathing.”

The demon watched for another moment, testing the younger hunter’s conviction, before settling back on his heels in a suddenly relaxed stance that gave away how tense he’d actually been.  A smile broke across his face, splitting his skin into something foul and wicked.  “Alright.  She’s out.”

Sam’s finger tightened on the trigger and the demon sighed dramatically.

“And her family too.  Don’t get your panties in a twist, tiger,” he condescended, raising his hands in a mockery of defeat.  They quickly shifted to far more dominant position, pointing at the boy with a grand sweep.  “But you’ve got to keep hunting.”

Sam’s brow furled.  The last thing he expected a demon to want was another hunter in the world.  Azazel smiled brightly, teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“It’s what you were made for, Sammy-boy.  Bred for, really.” 

Beside him, he missed Dean’s eyes narrowing.  But the demons didn’t.

“Fine.”  Sam loosened his finger on the trigger, but didn’t lower the gun.  “I want your word.”

Azazel raised a brow mockingly at the boy, but Sam Winchester wasn’t looking at him.  He was looking at Crowley.

The King of the Crossroads was well and truly stumped by the scene unfolding before him.  The two dimwitted brothers apparently not only had a significant clue to Samuel’s role in future events, but also knew Crowley by name, and had a hell of a pair of balls between them to ask for the demon who’d orchestrated all of this to begin with.

And yes, Crowley was fucking pissed he was being used as a god damn messenger, thank you for asking.  He was the King of the Crossroads, god damn it.  Some respect would be appreciated.

Now, now, he was staring at Sam Winchester like the moose of a human being (and sweet Jesus what were they feeding that kid?!) had gone and grown two heads.

No.  No, that wasn’t it.  Crowley had seen a human with two heads before.  This was far more ludicrous than a genetic freak of nature.

This was bloody insanity.

 “What?” he asked, perfectly calm and rather polite given the situation, and not in a shrieking sort of manner at all.  Not at all.  That would not be very kingly.  He raised his hands, quite content to be the messenger.  “I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

“You’re a crossroads demon, aren’t you?” 

Crowley bristled at the common label slung about like a meager insult.  As if he was just some two-bit salesman.  He was the bloody king and he’d earned that title!

Sam’s trigger-happy hand twitched on the Colt and Crowley simmered down with a growl and a damn unhappy grimace.  He didn’t need that thing pointed at him anytime soon, either.  The moose didn’t let up, but he did continue, “You make deals, so officiate this one.  I want your word as King of the Crossroads.  Jess if off limits, or both our lives are forfeit.”

Crowley was speaking before the younger of the two insane hunters even finished speaking.  “No bloody way-”

“Deal.”

All parties turned to Azazel, who smiled sweetly at them.

“No deal!” Crowley growled back, fisting his hands at his sides as he regarded the demon, now both offended and appalled.  The fucking bugger had a lot of nerve. “It’s not your bloody life they’re asking for.  You can bargain with your own damned soul.”

“Too late.”  Sam finally lowered the blasted gun to his side with a grim smile that looked more like death than an expression of victory.

Crowley sneered at all of them, the bastards.  With a mumbled ‘bollocks’ and a hastily written contract that he all but chucked at Sam Winchester’s soul, he whisked himself away back to his fortress and his 30 year old Craig.  He was owed a good long sulk and perhaps a temper tantrum.

Sam’s grip on the Colt tightened when the Yellow Eyed Demon did not leave as well.

He was watching Sam with a gleam in his eye that might have once been pride on the face he wore, but now just looked like malicious delight. 

“You know,” he began, and though he never moved from the center of the crossroads, it damn well felt like he was circling, “things are turning out far more interesting than we predicted.” 

His pale irises shifted to look at Dean and Jess.  “I wonder why that is.” 

Then he was gone.

Sam all but collapsed, bending over to brace his hands on his knees as he let out a shaky breath and took in a gulp of air that nearly had him choking.  Dean couldn’t have stopped Jess from going to his side if he had tried, and he didn’t.  Sam straightened to scoop her into his arms and press his face into her hair and breathe in the familiar, comforting scent.  She was chastising him as much as she was kissing him, and he tried to reassure her with a shaky voice that he was in no way suicidal.

Over her shoulder, he handed his brother back the Colt.  The relief of its weight gone from his hand made his stomach clench. 

He would have done it.  Dean had been sure he wouldn’t have to, but that wasn’t the point.  Despite the comforting words he mumbled into Jess’s ear, he would have done it.  He was ready to do it.  His legs felt like jelly beneath him and he cursed his own fear.  He was a hunter, damn it.  Death was part of the gig.

Within his arms, Jess turned her head to glare at Dean, who was tucking the Colt into the back of his jeans.  “This had better work.”

The older hunter stared at her in surprise for a moment, unsure if the venom was coming from the fact that he’d put Sammy in danger with his plan or that he’d put them all in danger by dragging his brother back into hunting in the first place.  Or altering the timeline and dragging her family into it instead.  There were just so many options to choose from.

“Trust me,” he tried to instill as much confidence and assuredness as he could into his words, to promise that her family would be safe from now on.  That she would be safe.  “Crowley will do whatever it takes to save his own skin.”

-o-o-o-

Sam didn’t talk on the drive back from dropping Jess off at the Moore home.  He didn’t say a word as they pulled into the dingy one-star motel parking lot, tiredly grabbed their bags and headed inside. He sat on the edge of the thin mattress on its squeaky frame, his back to the room and the world. 

Dean watched from the doorway as his little brother tried to hold it together, staring at the wall.  But his shoulders began to shake and his head ended up in his hands.

Dean Winchester had never been good with feelings.  At damn near forty years old, he still had no idea what to do with a distraught, hurting Sam. 

He could see the same shades of sadness in his brother that had been there once before.  This time around, instead of the anger and self-loathing and guilt, there was only sadness.  It wasn’t great – could hardly even be called an improvement because he had still lost Jess – but Dean knew that it was better.

She would live a full and happy life, even if Sam couldn’t be in it.  And that difference mattered.

His little brother was still walking the path of a hunter, so in a lot of ways nothing had changed.  The apocalypse was still set for a five year swing.  But Dean was determined not to let that make this small triumph mean less.  Because his brother wasn’t suffering the same loss and he wasn’t sinking into the cold-edged revenge that would define the rest of his life. 

A life of pain and hurting that ended in a graveyard and puddle of blood.  If things were going to change, Dean Winchester was going to have to do some changing of his own.

So he walked over to the side of Sam’s bed and sat down beside him.  He might not have any idea what to say, but for once in his life he was going to figure it out.

“I wanted to marry her.”

He looked at his brother’s hands, and white-knuckled around a ring box, and his heart broke a little on his brother’s behalf.  He ached for the kid.  Dean raised his hand to settle on his brother’s shoulder, hesitating and not having a clue what he was doing, but clasping Sam’s shoulder all the same.  He could feel the tremors just beneath the skin, and gave a reassuring squeeze, hoping he wasn’t making it worse.

“It probably doesn’t help – Hell, I know it doesn’t help.  But I think she wanted that too.”

His younger brother laughed, the mirthless sound breaking down into a sob that he tried to fight, but lost.  He was crying, and damn it all, Dean didn’t have a way to fix this.  He had always been better at messing these sorts of things up than fixing them. 

But he stayed.  Sam cried and Dean stayed, and if Time was an oracle you could talk to, she’d have said the future had a little more hope.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 9

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam threw the last of their bags in the trunk before he slid into the passenger seat of the Impala and closed the door.  Dean was already settled in the driver’s seat, the engine purring as she warmed up and fought off the incoming chill of the northeastern November weather.  It wasn’t cold yet, not for Kansas born boys who had experienced winter in almost every state, but it was getting down there. 

He held his hands in front of the heater more out of pleasure than necessity.  It was unusual for Dean to not have put the car in gear and got a move on, half the time before Sam even got the door fully closed.  At least, that’s how it had been before he left for Stanford.  Who knew with this new Dean.  

“Are we waiting on something?” the younger Winchester asked mostly in jest, but when Dean didn’t immediately snark back, he glanced to the driver’s side with a more serious expression.

“What do you wanna do, Sammy?”

The question, which seemed a complete non-sequitur to everything that had happened in the last five days, had Sam truly baffled.  “With what?  And it’s Sam.”

Dean shrugged.  “Your life.”                                          

The brunette gave a shake of his head, still not following.  “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about what you want to do, Sam.  Do you want to go back to school?  Become a lawyer?  Dress in green tights and be a literal walking ad for the Jolly Green Giant!  Whatever you want; you name it, and I’ll get you there.”

Brown eyes widened, but his heavy, sasquatch brow furled over them quickly.  “Dean, I can’t do any of those things,” and honestly the last one didn’t deserve recognition, “Yellow Eyes said I had to keep hunting.  I don’t have a clue why or what the hell he wants me for, but if it’s the only way to keep Jess safe, then that’s what I’m going to do.  So…”

He gestured to the windshield and the world beyond in part question and part impatience.

His brother watched him with soft eyes.  Softer than he’d seen them in a long time.  “Is that what you want?  Because if it isn’t – if you want to go back to school, we’ll figure out a way.”

“Dean….” Sam dropped his shoulders and with it came the weight and exhaustion he’d been valiantly hiding.  “I don’t know what I want.  I don’t know anything anymore.”

It was the truth.  He had never wanted to be a hunter, had done everything he could to escape the life.  And for a while, he had been happy.  Really happy.  But that was gone now, and returning to college, to the pursuit of law and a white picket fence with a pretty wife and two point five kids and an expensive car….it seemed cheap.  Fake.  Hollow as the aching pit in his chest. 

He raised his head, jaw clenched but chin firm.  “I know I want to keep Jess safe.  I need to keep her safe.  If hunting is the requirement, then let’s go.  Let’s find a hunt.”

“Alright then.” 

Despite knowing that was the answer the kid would give, Dean had to ask.  He had promised to change things this time around, and that meant giving Sam the choice.  He wished he could have kept him out of it completely, but Dean was starting to realize that changing the future would not be as simple as deciding who participated in it or not.  Destiny wasn’t going to be any easier to derail this time around, even if they were tearing up the tracks five years earlier.

So he put the car into gear and turned towards the highway.  As they left Boston behind them, he told his brother about a nice little Wendigo hunt he’d caught wind of in Colorado that was calling the Winchester name.

-o-o-o-

“The thing that killed mom was a demon.”

Dean looked over at Sam, who had been quiet for last hour or so.  The older Winchester wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, or where it was coming from.  They’d known Yellow Eyes was a demon for almost a week now – it had been pretty obvious since Brady.  Even so, Dean suddenly got the impression he was walking into a mine field.

“Uh….yeah.”

“Did you know?”  Sam was angry, already rearing up for the answer he most suspected.  “Did Dad know?”

Dean’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought of all the things John Winchester had kept from his sons.  Azazel, his pursuit of the bastard, the truth about Sammy, the deal for Dean’s life.

The last words he ever said to his oldest son.  A son he had raised to do one thing and one thing only: protect Sammy.

Had John Winchester known all along?  Or at least suspected that it had never been about Mary?

If he’d had let his boys help instead of giving them the runaround, would things have gone differently?  Dean didn’t know, but he wasn’t planning on finding out.  He and Sam were keeping as far away from their father as they could this time around.  At least until Dean worked the whole thing out and stopped what was coming.

“If he did, he kept it to himself.”

Sam looked away and tense silence reigned.  His anger was lessoning, replaced with confusion and hurt born from something he didn’t yet understand.  Because truth was, even with Dean keeping something from him – and he could tell it was more than just one thing – he was still his big brother.  He was still the kid that had raised him, the man that had come and gotten him every time he’d been lost, and more often than not when he didn’t want to be found.

His brother who had saved Jess.  Who was still sitting next to him, standing by him, despite everything this week had laid bare.

“The thing we’ve spent our whole life hunting…and now it’s after me?”

Dean didn’t answer, and Sam could see the tension in his shoulders.  He had an answer, but he didn’t want to say it.  Dean always looked like that any time Dad took him aside to have a private conversation.  A talk that Sam almost always knew was about responsibility.  Was about him.

“Mom died in your nursery, Sammy.”  When his brother spoke, it was hesitant, and he didn’t take his eyes off the road.  He was trying to soften a blow that couldn’t be softened.  “I think it was always after you.”

Sam grew a few shades pallor as realization hit him like a bucket of lead in his stomach.  He had never- it had never- there was no reason before now to think that Yellow Eyes had killed their mom for any other reason than that was just what monsters did.

But now, now Sam couldn’t breathe.

“It’s my fault she died.” 

“No!” Dean shook his head firmly, voice absolute.  He finally looked at his brother, his eyes fierce.  “That’s not what I said.”

“It doesn’t matter what you said, Dean!  It is what it is.  Mom died because I have a demon after me.  Jess almost died because of me.”  Sam’s eyes grew panicked and pained as realization only grew.  “It’s not going to stop.  You, and Dad-“

“Can take care of ourselves.” 

Sam’s hands were clenched against his thighs, and he hardly looked comforted by the thought.  The car was silent outside of his heavy breathing and the Metallica track still filtering out of the speakers.   When he spoke, there was panic in his voice that Dean rarely heard.  A panic fueled entirely by the number of people Sam cared about that were going to fall into the path of this nightmare.

“What does it want from me?”

His older brother didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t say anything at all.

-o-o-o-

They stopped for gas and road snacks outside of Scranton (“They don’t serve salads at the Gas’N’Sip, you leaf-eating freak.  Eat like a normal person!”).  Dean wasn’t thinking when he tossed Sam the keys over the hood as they filled up.

His younger brother stared at them, and then him, and then back at the keys.  He finally settled an astonished look on Dean.  “You’re letting me drive?”

The man from the future blinked, realizing that in 2005 it was not a thing he’d do lightly.  Even in 2016 it wasn’t something he did ‘lightly,’ per se.  He never liked anyone other than him behind Baby’s wheel.  But he trusted Sam with her.

When he thought about it, he recalled the first time he’d let the kid drive her, other than the occasional lesson when he was younger and the even rarer breakdown following a bout of puppy dog eyes before Stanford.  He’d done it because the kid had been damn heartbroken over Jess and Dean needed to do something – anything – to get that cold, expressionless look off his face.  Showing Sammy he trusted him to drive her had been it.

He supposed this time around wouldn’t be all that different.

“Why not?”  He smirked as his brother grinned and ran to the driver’s side of the car like a friggin teacher’s pet on the first day of school. 

Nerd.

-o-o-o-

The second leg of their drive had passed mainly in silence, with the occasional banter started mostly by the older hunter in an effort to keep the younger from sinking too deep into dark thoughts.  It was infinitely easier this time around.  But now Sam was glancing sidelong at him, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to enjoy the coming conversation.  “That gun…

“The Colt?”

“How did you know about it?  Was it a dream?”

“Nah.”  For once, Dean was ready.  He had his story straight.  He’d had almost fifty hours of flying and driving to figure out how to cover his ass this time.  And if he felt bad lying to his brother, he reminded himself what the inside of a psychiatric hospital looked like.  Because he’d been there, done that, and he was not eager to see where Sam placed time travel on the sanity scale. 

“Dad told me.  Daniel Elkins – a hunter buddy – had it.  He used to be a mentor of sorts for dad.  They had a falling out because he always thought Elkins had the gun, but never came clean about it.”

“And dad wanted it because it can kill demons.”

“Bingo.”

“But how’d you know Elkins had it?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder.  “Hunch.  Dad was pretty sure.  The man’s never wrong.”

He’d even rehearsed that line again and again until he almost believed it like 2005 Dean would have believed it.

Sam was quiet for a moment, giving his brother the stink eye that he was starting to catalogue as Bitchface #12 (“What is going on with you?” which was really “I know you’re lying to me, future boy” without proper context).

“Dad never struck me as the sharing type.”

Ha!  Sammy thought he could trip him up, but Dean was on his game today.  Now he had a list, and this time he was armed with forethought.  Besides.  It wasn’t really lying.  Dad had told them, just in another life. 

“Beer and a bad hunt, Sammy.”  He grinned at his brother.  “Goes a long way with the old man.”

“It’s Sam.”

“Right.”

The car fell silent again.

“How’d you get it from him?”  Sam was staring out the windshield with a furled brow.  Kid was gonna get wrinkles if he kept that up (which Dean knew he wouldn’t, at least not in the next ten years, but seriously, Sasquatch, lighten up.)  “If it really can kill anything, that’s a powerful weapon.”

The younger hunter’s words trailed off as realization dawned across his face.  He turned his most scandalized bitchface (#10, which was basically just “Dean!”) on his brother, staring at him.  “What did you do?”

“Come on, Sam,” he balked, “it’s not like I went Liam Neeson on some old hunter with my ‘very particular set of skills.’”  Sam raised an eyebrow, so he rolled his eyes.  “I talked to him.”

And he actually had.  Sure, there was a threat or two mixed in with the rest of the words, but truth was he’d talked that gun out of Elkin’s safe for the second time.

“Right.” 

“It’s true!  Bitch.”

“Jerk.  How’d you know about Crowley?”  Sam didn’t miss a beat, though he went for a surprisingly nonchalant tone this time as he pulled out his phone and started typing away. 

Dean might not know it, but Sam wasn’t missing a thing and he’d started a list of his own.  Most recently added was the reference to a relatively low-key actor for Dean’s usual choice of TV and movie watching.  Schindler’s List wasn’t exactly the older Winchester’s genre of choice when it came to pay-per-view. 

There was that stint as a Jedi, but the nerd in Sam didn’t talk about Episode I.

The limited wifi he got on his phone was telling him Neeson had starred in that Batman reboot that came out last summer.  That wasn’t only up Dean’s alley, it pretty much encompassed the whole damn block, so it was enough to garner a movie reference.  Sam hadn’t seen it, so he couldn’t say one way or the other. 

Maybe the drama actor was breaking into action.  Weirder things had happened.

He tucked his phone back in his jacket pocket.  “King of the Crossroad’s a pretty heavy hitter to just summon out of the blue.”

Dean winced.  Because now he was going to straight up lie, and he was going to do it using the Sam-given justification he really wasn’t comfortable abusing. 

“That was a dream.  Not a good one either, the smarmy bastard.”

Brown eyes turned to him, slightly wide.  He hadn’t been expecting an honest answer, considering most of what came out of Dean’s mouth these days was utter crap and they both knew it.

“Really?”  He straightened up in the passenger seat.  “What was it like?  The ones with….” He cut off, looking away from those dreams that still taunted him nightly.  “The ones I had back at Stanford.  They were…really vivid.  They felt completely real, but I had a hell of a headache each time.”

Dean nodded, having expected that.  “Mine aren’t vivid.   They play out more like….step by step instructions.  Hunting by numbers, heh.  Don’t get a headache, though.”

His brother was watching him like a hawk: gullible puppy dog eyes but a suspicious pair of eyebrows.  Dean hoped he was buying it.  He’d worked his ass off pre-planning this.  And he was really more of the ‘shoot first, shoot last, deal with it once everyone was dead’ kinda guy. 

He thought he was pulling a pretty good act.  It sounded natural, or at least it had when he’d rehearsed it over and over again on his way back from Manning.

The problem with all of this, and which had taken damn near the entire drive to talk himself into, was that he had been trying to lie less to Sammy.  Ever since the Gadreel ordeal, he’d promised no more lies, no matter what.  He’d even managed to be somewhat forthright about the mark and his connection with Amara.

He glanced at Sam, who was watching him with a curious frown.  Of course, this wasn’t the brother he’d lied to (and been lied to) over and over again for almost a decade of cyclical cause and effect.  This was before all that.  And, if he could do what he was thinking about doing, maybe those lies would never be necessary in the first place.

Besides, desperate times and all that.  You’d think coming from the future would qualify as a special exception.

“Does your chest hurt?”

“Huh?”  The older hunter took his eyes off the road long enough to give his brother a confused look.

“You rub at it at a lot.”

“No, I don’t.”

His brother huffed that particular scoff-slash-laugh that was both concern and disbelief.  “Dude, you’re doing it right now.”

Dean looked down to find his hand absently kneading a small, repetitive pattern across his sternum.  He frowned, simultaneously removing his hand as if burned, as well as hesitating like it physically hurt to pull away.  Despite his brain demanding he rest his arm along the window, the hunter’s fingers twitched to return to the warmth in his chest and he ended up fisting his fingers against the edge of the glass as he gritted his teeth. 

Okay, maybe Sam had a point.

“Sometimes,” he fessed up, though he’d never connected the ache in his chest with his ‘dreams.’  Probably because he wasn’t freaking having psychic dreams to begin with.

It was just…. He wasn’t used to the warmth.  For the better half of a decade, Dean had walked around with a black hole in his chest, ever sucking, ever hungry, ever unfulfilled.  He’d dealt with it and, like any chronic pain, it eventually regulated to something duller, to something that became normal.

Now he had a supernova in his chest. 

That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but it damn near felt like it to him.   He was whole and he was happy.  His brother had just broken up with the love of his life, was forcibly dragged back into hunting, and the apocalypse was still chugging ahead right on schedule.  But Dean was happy.  Happier than he’d been since Sam had run off to Stanford, almost fifteen years ago for him.

He’d forgotten what it was like to not be broken, in more ways than one.

The part of him that remembered, the part of him that was still a shattered, ruined soul just disguised in a new, fresh casing, didn’t want to be an inch away from that happiness.  It needed the contact, the assurance.  To feel that warmth and wholeness and goodness and know that it was still there.  That it wasn’t going anywhere.  That it was his, and it was him, and it always would be this time around.

His hand twitched against the window.  

Sam accepted his bare-bones admission and didn’t push.

-o-o-o-

“I don’t know, Bobby.”  He shifted to push the cell phone against his ear with his shoulder as he pulled back the motel curtains and glanced at the empty parking lot.  “It’s like he’s…older.  Tired and bitter and trying to hide it.  It’s not like him.”

Dean was on a food run while Sam started researching the missing hikers in Blackwater Ridge.  His brother had cited the need for a ride with the windows down and the music up and no bitching co-pilot.  Sam used the opportunity to have an over-due chat with Bobby. 

They’d called him briefly outside of Boston to fill him in on the Moores, as well as give someone a heads-up that they were headed to Colorado on a hunt.  He’d been damn surprised to hear Sam’s continued hunting was a stipulation of the demon’s deal (and boy, did the two boys catch hell for that: ‘You summoned WHAT?  You made a DEAL?  You goddamn idjits!’).  So Bobby had immediately hit the books and the national weather read outs with little to show for it, but a promise to keep digging.  Hell was up to something, that was for sure, and someone had to do the legwork to figure out what.

“Four years is a long time, Sam.  People change.”

The hunter smiled bitterly down at the carpet as he let the curtains go.  Like he hadn’t thought of that a hundred times.  “Some people, maybe: not Dean.  Besides, the night he grabbed me from Stanford he was the same snarky ass I remember.  And even if that was some weird exception, you’ve seen him over the last four years.  Does he seem like Dean to you?”

He could picture Bobby pulling off his ball cap and scratching at his head.  The accompanying sigh confirmed it.  “Can’t say he does,” he huffed down the line.  “You sure it’s him?”

Sam laughed, but there was little humor in it.  “I tried every test I know, Bobby.  And he let me.  Even recommended a few.”  Bobby scoffed and Sam chuckled.  Yup, that sounded like Dean, despite everything.  “I’m not saying it’s not him, but either he’s something we’ve never seen before or…”

“Or he’s the real Dean.” 

Sam was quiet as he thought about which of those options he’d actually prefer.  It should be an easy choice.  If this wasn’t Dean, than either his brother was tied and holed up somewhere only his imposter knew or he was dead.  There was no way all of this could go down without his brother catching wind of someone impersonating him, not to mention all the demonic activity.

So, it should be an easy choice.  But there was a tension to this Dean, a weight and responsibility that went beyond anything Sam had ever seen in his brother’s eyes.  If this really was him, then what the hell happened that night between Stanford and Jericho to change his brother so much?  Dean always blamed himself for everything, always carried the weight of the job and their family and particularly Sam’s safety.  But this was a whole new level.  It was like he was carrying the weight of the entire planet around, and refusing to share any of the load.

“He’s different, Bobby.  Sometimes he acts like his old self, and sometimes…It’s like he’s seen the end of the world.”

Sam said it half joking, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth the dread that had settled in the bottom of his stomach for a week now roiled around uncomfortably. 

“Maybe he has.”  Bobby’s words only confirmed what he was already thinking.  “Or something like it.  He has those visions of his, and we don’t exactly work in a future-friendly industry, kid.” 

The younger Winchester ran a hand through his hair, frustration warring with guilt and worry, and all of it gnawing at his gut.  “Then why hasn’t he told us, Bobby?  If he’s seen something bad and it’s coming our way, we need to know.”

“Hell, Sam, you know your brother. He’s a damn martyr with a guilt complex taller than my house.  If he’s seen something and there ain’t shit to be done….”  Bobby trailed off with a sigh and sounded far more tired than his years.  “He won’t tell us.  He’ll fix it on his own, or die trying.”

And that was it.  That was exactly what had been eating at Sam but hadn’t yet been put to words.  He clenched his jaw, fingers threatening to break the plastic casing of his phone.

“Not this time.  We make him to tell us.  One way or another.  I’m not letting some psychic vision dictate my future.”

When Bobby didn’t answer, which was an answer all itself, Sam straightened, mind made up and determination setting his shoulders straight and his spine rigid.

“I’m not letting Dean dictate it either.”

-o-o-o- 

Their first hunt together went pretty damn smooth, if you asked Dean.  They even managed to save the asshole guide those kids hired.  He’d kind of hoped he and Sam could get in and out of the woods before the sister-brother duo and their douchebag forest man decided on a rescue mission.  Alas, they’d shown up the same damn day they had the first time around, something Dean couldn’t recall in detail until he realized he was actually living it.  Again.

Talk about Déjà vu.  The Matrix had nothing on him.

The five of them walked out of the woods with the malnourished, traumatized brother on a stretcher between them.  Among the rangers and the EMTs and a thankful family, Sam turned to him and freaking smiled.  A job well done, four souls saved, two Wendigos burned straight to Purgatory, never to return.

“Maybe we should get some camping gear,” Sam was saying as they entered the motel room, planning on collapsing on the crappy beds and thin blankets and sleeping like they hadn’t slept in a week.  Wendigos sucked.  “Save money on hotels.”

Dean fell face first on the bed, his answer muffled by the questionably stained pillow case (eh, he’d seen worse).  He couldn’t imagine voluntarily spending time out in the woods.  Without internet, or coffee, or freaking TV.  No thank you.  He would take his motels with their questionable stains, crappy instant make, and never-working ice machines.  And then they would go home and he could curl up happily in his room and appreciate four walls and a door more than he had in almost his whole adult.

“That’s what the bunker’s for, Sammy.” 

Shit.

“What?”

Shit, shit, shit.

Double.  Friggin’.  Crap.  On.  A.  Friggin’.  Cracker. 

Now he ached for home.  For his bedroom, and his weapon collection, and his war room, and his fully-stocked kitchen with actual home cooked food.  His home that wasn’t a home in this timeline.  It was a sickening realization how much he missed it.  The only home he’d ever had.  A home that was locked up tighter than Fort Knox with a missing key that didn’t exist at this current moment in time, and wouldn’t until two thousand and fucking thirteen when it showed up with their paternal grandfather in tow. 

Son of a bitch! 

The only thing that kept him from rubbing at his sternum was his herculean-strength stubbornness.  Well, that and he was currently lying on his chest with no plans of moving for the next nine hours.

“Sorry.”  He flopped his hand in the direction of his brother, praying the kid hadn’t heard him right and that he could play off the whole whiney bitch nickname bit.  “Sam.”

“No, not that.”  The sasquatch titled his head to the side. “I mean, yeah that, but the other thing.  What did you say?”

“I said shut your blasphemous mouth,” he lied like his life depended on it, growling and lifting his head off the pillow to glare at his giant of a kid brother.  “I’m riding the high of a successful hunt here, Sam.  Don’t ruin it with talk of freezing the family jewels off just to take a piss in the middle of the night.  I’ll keep my crap motel and it’s equally crap indoor plumbing, thank you very much, you tree-hugging hippie.” 

Sam was watching him in amusement as he unpacked his bag and Dean declared his runaround a success.  He collapsed back into the pillow with a sinfully delighted groan and set about achieving that goal of not moving for the next nine hours.

When his brother started snoring, Sam Winchester opened his laptop, pulled up a mislabeled document sent to himself from his phone, and wrote down ‘bunker’ next to ‘Daniel Elkins’ and ‘Cass’.

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 10

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean remembered Bloody Mary.  He remembered most of the Urban Legend cases pretty well.  One, because they weren’t your run of the mill case and they always made for good stories later.  And B, they were more often than not a bitch to figure out.

The key to this Mary had been a mirror.  He remembered Sammy had summoned her because of some big secret that got Jess killed (and yeah, looking back now, it was obviously the visions he’d been having) and she’d come after him from the mirror she died in front of or something. 

Problem number one: Dean knew that secret now.  So she wasn’t going after Sam.  Which kind of messed up the whole ‘step ahead of the rest’ thing he had been rocking on their other hunts.  In theory, being from the future should be damn awesome when it came to hunting.  It should make him the most badass hunter around. 

Problem number two: It wasn’t and it didn’t because he wasn’t alone. 

He had to walk on eggshells about everything around Sammy, and everyone else for that matter.  Dean couldn’t just go to Mr. Yamashiro’s antique shop (he’d yellow-paged it as soon as they got to town) and cut the bitch down.  He wouldn’t be able to explain how he knew where to go with no research or what the bitch was without digging.  So he lied, and he bluffed, and he led their witnesses as much as he could as fast as he could without his brother realizing he already knew the information he was trying to get out of them.

Their other hunts so far had been easier to fake his way around.  Half the time they had to wait for specific timing anyway to even use his fancy future knowledge mojo.  But this one, he knew where the damn mirror was and how to gank the ghost before she killed any more innocents.

But he couldn’t go to it.

For the whole damn case he found himself cursing Cas’s name again and again.  Twenty-four hours earlier, and he wouldn’t have to beat around a thousand bushes.  He knew, now, that it wouldn’t have truly mattered.  Nothing he could have done would have kept Sammy out of the hunting life, twenty-four hours or whole months.  But damn it, sometimes he needed to think he could have.  That Sam would be at law school with Jess and Dean could go waste this bitch without jumping through hoops, lying to his little brother left and right, and claiming psychic dreams when that didn’t cover it all.

As if having psychic dreams wasn’t already the biggest damn lie.

His whole life was becoming a never-ending web of deception.  Dean knew – knew too well – where that led.  It led to a prophet and a kid and a friend, dead in the bunker with his eyes burned out of his head.

God knew (and Hell and the Pagans, and everyone else in the friggin’ cosmos) that he couldn’t keep this up forever.  Not without making all the same mistakes he’d come back to fix. 

“So you think she’s killing people who summon her with a secret?” 

They were in the Impala, driving to Estate Antiques in Toledo while Charlie Patterson sat at home with all of the mirrors in her room covered.  Dean had remembered too late who the other victims were, and they’d lost her friend, Jill, to the pissed off ghost.  Now Charlie was next on the list.  If he didn’t have to play a thousand questions right now, he could have saved the bitch prom queen, and the terrified teen holed up in her house wouldn’t have PTSD for the rest of her life. 

He seriously wanted to punch something.  Luckily, they were on their way to a store with a lot of shiny, breakable objects.

“Not just any secret: one where someone got killed.”  Dean pulled onto the street the shop was located on.  Yep, this looked familiar. 

Sam gazed blankly out the window as his thoughts inevitably turned to the dreams he’d been having before this all started.  The ones he’d ignored that had almost gotten Jess killed.  Because of his brother she was still alive, at home in Boston recovering with her parents from an ordeal he was sure the family would never fully get over.

“So what secret aren’t you telling me that got someone killed?”  Dean pulled into the parking lot outside the store and got out of the car without answering.  Sam followed, leaning over the top of the car to watch his brother who was watching the building.  “Come on, Dean.  I know you’re going to summon her; it’s written all over your face.”

“We should check for an alarm.”  The older hunter was frowning up at the sign above the store.  “I got a bad feeling about an alarm in there.”

Annoyed, Sam moved around the car to stop his brother before he could advance on the antiques shop.  “Seriously, man.  When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Dean finally looked at him and grinned that cocky, broken smile that was always his tell when he had a lie he couldn’t hide but would die before he gave up.  “Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you.”    

He proceeded to the door, pulling out his lock picks and Sam followed after in a huff.   

A few minutes later and Sammy was calling out that the alarm system was down (Ha!  He was totally right.  The cops had shown up the first time around.  Score one for future Dean!) and the two got to work on finding the ghost’s stupid mirror in a shop full of stupid mirrors.  It wasn’t quite the needle in the needle stack Dean grumbled it was, but it still took a fair bit of time to spot the one that matched the newspaper clipping on Mary Worthington’s tragic death.

“Dean, over here.”  The older hunter joined his brother, who stood in front of a mirror that perfectly matched the one from the photo, right down to the whole creep vibe.

“Yep, that’s it.”  He pocketed the clipping and held out his hand for the crowbar.

The beanstalk of a man passed it over reluctantly.  “You sure about this?” 

Dean raised an eyebrow.  “What, you got someone killed recently I don’t know about?”

Hurt and indignation fought for control over his brother’s face, before he settled on the one that was far easier to express.  “And you have?”

‘Not yet.’ Inner Dean muttered deep within his own mind.  Aloud, he rebuked more caustically than necessary and rolled his eyes.  “Secret, Sam.  It won’t be much of one if you keep asking.”

Dean started the summoning before Sam could rebuke.  He spoke the first two names steadily, but paused before the final call to cast a final ‘here goes’ look at Sam.  His brother rolled his shoulders and raised the flashlight across the dusty surface of the mirror.  “Bloody Mary.”

The two stood in silence, one with crowbar raised and ready for a homerun swing, the other an unwavering light on the reflective surface, just waiting for the ghost of Mary Worthington to show herself.

There was the inhale to his left, slow and shaky and screaming creepy ghost woman. Dean spun, but it was only his own reflection watching him in the many mirrors that surrounded the two hunters. 

“Dean!”

“I know, I know, stay on her friggin’ mirror.”  Another breath sounded and he swore he could feel that one on his skin.  He spun again, crowbar kept tight to his body so he didn’t swing the thing into Sam.  Still, only their own reflections stared back.

“Where is she?”  Sam’s eyes darted to the other mirrors, snapping back to Mary’s when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.  But there was nothing there.  “Dean, do you see her?”

The older Winchester didn’t answer, and Sam cast a worried look his way.  His brother wasn’t moving, standing stalk still in front of a mirror, staring at himself like it was the very ghost they were hunting. 

“Dean?”

“No.  I won’t,” he whispered, breathe catching even as he did and that was all Sam needed to round on the mirror his brother was standing on front of and smash it to pieces with a couple hard blows with the butt of the flashlight.  Dean broke out of his trance and stumbled back.

“Shit, Sam, the mirror!”

“She wasn’t in it!”

Dean turned to find the source reflection but drew up short at the sight of himself ten years from now.  No.  Not ten years.  More like eight and an apocalypse later.  So much more like 2014 Dean, who was cold and hard and bitter and sent his best friend and his crew to their death for a god damn distraction.  A Dean who had lost his brother to the Devil.

Green eyes stared at him with such hatred, such disappointment that it took his breath away and sent pain shooting through his head like a physical blow.

“You’re going to get them all killed.” 

“Shut your mouth.”

“You’re nothing but a screw up, Dean.  You and me?  We only know how to make things worse.  The whole world’s gonna burn, and this time it’ll be all your fault.”

“Shut up, you son of a bitch!  I’m not you!” He charged the mirror with the crowbar and, in a show of excessive force, sent the frame tumbling backwards to crash into another mirror, cracking that one on the floor.

“Dean!”                                                                                                                              

“Find her, Sam!”  He stumbled with a gasp, putting a hand to the side of his head.  God, he had a killer headache.  He heard his brother smash a mirror, and then another, calling out to Mary, daring her to go into the one they needed.  But Dean couldn’t focus. His head felt like it was swimming in a damn punch bowl.  He fell to his knees and the crowbar clattered to the ground. 

He clutched at his chest.  His heart was racing like a friggin’ freight train.  Pain laced through him on every slamming beat and he felt something warm and thick sliding down his cheek.  Shit. 

“You’re going to hell, Dean.”  The hunter’s breath hitched and his head shot up, pain arcing across the inside of his skull to shoot down his spine.  His reflection towered over him, staring down on him in disregard.

His eyes were pitch black. 

“You’re going to hell, again.  And this is what you’re going to become.”

Blood soaked fingers dragged his sleeve up, leaving red streaks across his skin like a sick finger painting: a trail that led straight to the mark of Cain.  It burned hot and angry on his forearm. 

“N-No…”  Dean couldn’t look.  He dropped his head and watched blood drip to the floor beneath him.  Crap, this was so not going to plan.

Sam’s flashlight went through the mirror, shattering Demon Dean and raining shards of glass on the collapsed hunter.  The flashlight hit the ground with a clatter and the younger Winchester left it, abandoned, to grab Dean beneath his arms.  He hauled him back and away from the mirrors as glass clinked and cracked in their wake. 

When they were a couple feet to safety, the sasquatch bent down and hauled his brother up with an arm wrapped over his shoulder.  He didn’t make it a yard before he heard glass crunch behind them.  The hunter glanced back over his shoulder, body tense and spine rigid.

Mary Worthington was climbing out of her mirror like something out of a nightmare.  Only much, much worse because this was very real.

“Shit!” Sam muttered, dropping his brother on the ground with a grunt as he dove for the abandoned crowbar.  If nothing else, it had iron in it. 

His hand had just wrapped around cold metal when he felt it.  The blood rushing to his brain, the pain filling his head like a cup soon to overflow.  Sam tried to keep his grip on the weapon, tried to raise it to the ghost straightening up and stalking towards him and his brother.  He could feel the blood leaking from his eyes, could feel it filling his nose and throat. 

“S-Sammy,” he turned, but it felt like it took a lifetime.  His brother was staring at him from eyes squinting past blood and pain.  He was trying to point at something.  “Mir-mirror.  Use a mirror.”

Sam turned back to the ghost, feet dragging across the glass-scattered floor.  She had a jagged piece in hand, clenched around a bloody fist and poised to kill.  He looked to his left, where an intact mirror was lying on its side.  With a deep breath, he grabbed at the thing and struggled to hold it up, praying to God that they could turn her vengeful justice on herself.

Because if not, they were screwed.

Mary choked on her own screams and cries of sin, clawing at her face to hide from whatever it was she saw in the mirror’s surface.  She writhed and bent in on herself, folding into impossible tightness before she collapsed into nothing more than a pile of blood.

The pain immediately drained from his head and Sam fell to the ground.  He wrapped his hand around the crowbar once more and proceeded to smash the mirror to pieces. 

Dean stumbled to his feet and made his way to Mary Worthington’s mirror.  He kicked it hard, nearly losing his balance.  The mirror fell to the ground, cracks spiraling through it and breaking the smooth surface.

“Bitch,” he muttered as he turned around to look at his brother.  He slid to his knees, wincing at the glass biting into his legs. 

Sam huffed out a laugh, sitting back on his heels and looking at the destroyed shop around them.   “This has to be a couple hundred years of bad luck.” 

“Just what we need.”  Dean laughed, stopping to spit out a mouthful of blood, but laughing all the same. 

That was, until they heard the sirens in the distance.

“Shit,” the older of the two muttered, pushing himself up again and grabbing his brother to help him stand.  “Someone must have heard the showdown.”

“We weren’t exactly subtle,” Sam chuckled back, grabbing the crowbar and the flashlight as they raced out of the store.  They had to take anything that might have their prints.  But damn, was bending over a bad idea in his current state.

“You know how to smash a mirror quietly and didn’t tell me?” 

He grinned at his brother as they hobbled as quickly as two people covered in blood and nearly dying of an aneurysm could.  Neither should probably be driving, but it wasn’t like they had much of a choice.  Dean put the Impala into drive and the two hauled ass away from Estate Antiques before the cops showed up.

-o-o-o-

They were pulling off the main highway and into the hotel they were camped at for the night when Sam started the conversation he knew his brother would fight tooth and nail to avoid.  The older hunter turned to him expectantly as he put the car in park.  There was still a streak of dried blood across his left cheek and the corner of his eye, despite his best attempts to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Dean, who is it you think you got killed?”

Dean Winchester stared at his brother, honestly debating what to say.  He knew what he had to say, but it wasn’t what he wanted to say.  He wanted to tell him the truth.  Or at least, he didn’t want to lie to him again.  Didn’t want to cause that look in his eyes when he thought his big brother didn’t trust him. 

But he didn’t have much of a choice and it looked like time was damn determined to repeat itself in some ways no matter what he did.  It friggin’ sucked.

“No can do, Sammy.”  He gave a weak-ass smile.  The one that said he knew what his brother wanted, but couldn’t give it to him.  “If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.”

Sam looked pissed at him making light of it, but it was a misdirect that would keep him from digging deeper, at least for now.  He certainly adopted that expression that said he knew Dean didn’t trust him.  But he didn’t say much, just settled back with a full grown man’s pout and indignantly insisted, “It’s Sam.”

“Course it is.” 

-o-o-o-

The masses of Hell would be muttering and whispering for weeks.  Something was up.  Something was coming.  Two meetings by the powerhouses of Hell in less than a week, and not one of them had tried to kill the others. 

And none of the three aforementioned leaders of the Underworld were happy about it.

“He knew my name.  They summoned me by my bloody name!”  Crowley was spewing in his anger, red faced and hair out of place from constant tugging.  He had been pissed as soon as he and the barmy yellow eyed bastard returned to Hell. 

Azazel, far more calm and composed, had suggested an emergency meeting with Lilith.  She brought along her top torturer, much to the displeasure of everyone involved. 

“And then, to top it off, this bastard agrees to my head on the chopping block!”  The King of the Crossroads thumbed at his companion, as if the motion itself could somehow stab Azazel through the heart and rip his life force out to roast on a spit. 

He was just a little displeased by current events.

“Quit your whining, Crowley.”  Alastair looked at the other man with great displeasure and more than a little disdain.  The day to day dealings of Hell and Earth were below him.  He had humans to be breaking; his talents were far more needed elsewhere.

The crossroads demon sputtered and the purpling of his face promised both retribution and possible self-asphyxiation.  Whichever one happened first.  “Whining?  Whining, he says!”

“Enough.”  The gathered men turned their attention at the powerful command coming from such a small body.  Lilith regarded them all like idiot children she hardly had the time to discipline.  “Clearly, Dean Winchester is getting information from someone.”

“There’s been no movement at the gate.”  Azazel was as calm and indifferent as always.  Perhaps that was why their Father had picked him to start everything.  “It’s not Heaven.”

“Then a pagan,” Lilith supplied, looking less than pleased.  While it was a far better situation than the cloud-hoppers, she hated dealing with those primitives.  “We anticipated the lesser deities taking offence at us ending the world.”

She said it so casually.  Crowley might have found entertainment in that, if he wasn’t still boiling over (and rightly so, might he add).  Of course, the best part was that she was missing the most likely category of saboteur to their little party.  The category he, himself fit into when he wasn’t busy playing his part as an officer in the Apocalypse Club.

“Or a demon.” Alistair seemed unaffected by the treason he so easily suggested and Crowley resisted glaring daggers in his general direction.  “A traitor would benefit greatly from the power struggle a coup would cause if Lucifer fails to rise.”

The little girl and current Queen of Hell balked.  “A coup?  You’re suggesting some demon thinks hunters can stop us?  Let alone kill…who?  Me?  Azazel?  You?  Don’t make me laugh, Alistair.”

Crowley had to use all his not insignificant self-control to ignore the way she casually passed him over on that list.  Oh, he could not wait for the day the Winchesters put this bitch’s head on a spike.  He might even offer his services.  Perhaps he could suggest a few targets for that new gun of theirs.

Hell’s top torturer just shrugged.  He could care less what happened.  Whether Lucifer rose or not, he would get to continue his work and that’s all that mattered to him.  “You’ve underestimated the Righteous Man once before, look where that got you.”

Lilith seethed through gritted teeth and small fists.  She spun on Azazel, who regarded her with little change in expression.  “Pull your daughter off of John Winchester.  Get someone else to track him down.  I want her saddled up to Dean and finding out who or what the hell is helping him.”

The yellow eyed demon shrugged in acquiescence.  His eldest was the best of his children, and Dean was a serious demotion for her skills.  But arguing with Lucifer’s First was useless when she was like this.

 He had little doubt his daughter would wheedle her way past the obvious holes in the hunter’s defenses in less than a week.  Finding someone else to get to John would be a challenge, though.  He was a resourceful human, capable of giving even Hell’s best the slip.  If she was having trouble finding him, it was unlikely any of his other children would fare better.

As the meeting broke up, Azazel pondered an option he had not previously considered.  He hadn’t needed to.  But it looked like their timetable was speeding up, and that would require more…aggressive planning.

Perhaps it was time to take a page out of Dean Winchester’s book.  There were more than a couple pagans and monsters with skill sets far more suited to tracking than a demon’s.

-o-o-o-

Over the next couple of weeks, the brother’s fell into an easy routine.  Find a hunt, kill the monster, rinse and repeat.  Sometimes rinse really, really, really well.  God, Dean had not needed to relive the bug curse ever, ever again.

He’d been worried at the beginning – damn near gave himself a panic attack actually – about not following their steps exactly as they had the first time.  What if they missed hunts where they had saved people?  What happened to those souls this time around?  And how screwed up could he make the timeline before he started seeing consequences?  What was one life, versus stopping the apocalypse?

The nightmares generated from those questions alone were enough to keep Dean up most nights. 

It happened on occasion.  Of course it happened. The older hunter couldn’t remember every hunt they’d been on, try as he might, and some he could remember the monster or a memorable moment, but not enough of the important details to track the case down.  Especially when, more often than not, he couldn’t recall when or where it would happen.

They’d roamed the country last time, checking news articles and obituaries and making their way hunt to hunt.  There was no way to say which newspapers they’d picked up, which town they were in when they found their next case.  He tried to go by instinct, but in reality it was a fucking guessing game and there was nothing he could do when he got it wrong.

The lack of déjà vu was always his first clue. 

It sucked how badly he hoped for it now, how he started the mantra in his head when they entered whatever nameless town was in need of saving.  A silent, repeated prayer, begging for the trippy sense of familiarity to start any second now.  Because going without it meant they’d done something different this time around.  It meant innocent people they were supposed to save were going to die instead.

It was another drop in the cup of changing the future and Dean wasn’t sure how full that cup was, or how much it could hold from the start.

The older hunter never knew what monster they had missed or where he’d messed up (had he skipped a local newspaper?  Decided to turn left on the highway when last time he went right?  Had he distracted Sam with some inane joke right at the moment the kid would have found the hunt?) He lived in complete paranoia the first week after the Wendigo as they looked for their next gig.  Eventually Sam threatened a mutiny over driving rights and a trip straight to Bobby’s for a break and possibly a head check if his brother didn’t calm the hell down and relax. 

Luckily, Sam seemed to think it was the whole ‘demons want my little brother on a silver platter’ anomaly causing the odd behavior.

So Dean caved and forced himself to let whatever would happen, happen.

Besides, if Time wanted so badly to walk the same road, then it could deal with the cleanup whenever Dean fucked up. 

Right?

-o-o-o-

He knew the second she kissed him that she wasn’t human. 

She was gorgeous.  Never-ending curves and full breasts, everything just barely contained in the sinfully tight jean skirt and cut off top that perfectly fit the dive bar they were in.  She even had the cowboy boots that screamed ‘kinky.’  Sex was clearly on the menu tonight, and up until she’d locked lips with him, Dean had considered ordering the full course meal.

He’d never kissed a demon hiding behind the face of a human before: only the crossroads demon, and he’d known what he was getting himself into with that one.  The background taste of sulfur in this demon’s mouth was unmistakable, though, and stomach-turning.  How the hell Ruby talked her way into his brother’s bed tasting like that, he’d never know. 

They managed to play it cool.  He signaled to Sam that something was up in the same line he used to invite the woman back to his place.  Sammy rolled his eyes appropriately and didn’t bother watching them leave with her draped over his brother like silk.  They made their way out of the bar and started the block and a half walk back to the motel.  He stalled for time using every other walled-surface as an excuse for heavy groping, selling it hard.

Next gas station they stopped at, he was buying out their supply of mouthwash and toothpaste.  

Sam was already in the room when they stumbled in.  She was stripping Dean of his jacket when he stepped out from behind the door, a bottle of holy water in one hand and the Key of Solomon in the other. 

“Shit.”  She didn’t even try to deny it as Dean took three hasty steps out of the devil’s trap spray-painted into the crappy carpet.  Yeah, their fake credit card was definitely getting charged for that one come morning. 

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand but it did little to chase away the foul taste still clinging on his tongue.  The bitch crossed her arms, borrowed face full of disbelief, anger, and amusement all wrapped up in a smirk that was eerily familiar to Dean.  He didn’t recognize the woman playing host, and it was kind of hard to tell demons apart by facial expressions alone.  They pretty much all had the same basic personality, bought on discount at ‘Evil Villains and Cliché Monsters Co.’, just ratcheted up to different levels.

Sam started the exorcism and the woman sneered.

“How’d you know?”  She directed her question at the older Winchester with a hint of a smirk.  The demon was clearly pissed, but in a calm sort of way that screamed ‘cat’ in the canary-who’s-about-to-get-eaten scenario.  Which put Dean on edge, considering he and his brother were definitely supposed to be the cats here. 

He got the uncomfortable feeling that he had, in fact, met this demon before. 

“You taste like sulfur, bitch.”

She laughed, even as she choked on her own black essence.

-o-o-o-

“Why would demons still be after us?”  Sam let out a frustrated noise as they packed up and hit the road, not daring to stay overnight in a town where demons had found them.  Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, wondering if he still remembered the ingredients for those Hex bags Ruby always gave them.  With the bunker proofed seven ways to Sunday, it had been a while since he made one.  “I thought we had a deal.  I’m hunting!”

The older brother just shrugged, less surprised and far less concerned about Hell being on their six.  It was kind of expected, actually.  “Deal didn’t say anything about them leaving us alone.  Just Jess.  Besides, whatever Yellow Eyes wants you for is big.  I’m not surprised they’re keeping an eye on us.”

Sam looked less than happy at that.

-o-o-o-

It was in Indiana they caught trail of a skinwalker, or what they thought was a skinwalker.  Dean wasn’t sure as nothing memorable was coming up about this hunt.  They’d have to see what John’s journal said, since he was pretty rusty on the monsters.

“Wait,” Sam pulled up short on their way back to the Impala.  Surprise was written all over his face.  “You have Dad’s journal?”

“Yeah, it’s-” Dean stopped.  Because it wasn’t in the trunk.  He’d done inventory back in Stanford and again before they left Boston for the wendigo hunt.  Its absence hadn’t occurred to him then but it sure as hell did now.  He thumped his fist on the roof of the impala and resisted the urge to swear like a sailor.

Dad’s journal was in a box in the evidence locker of the Jericho Police Department.

Son of a bitch!

-o-o-o--

“This is a terrible idea.”

“For the thousandth time.  Shut.  Up.”

Dean stretched his arms up as far as he could, flashlight held between his teeth, as he worked the edge of a knife under the sill of a second story window of the JPD. 

Okay, so this was a terrible idea.  Breaking into a police station was easy pickings for Ten-Years-From-Now Sam.  But Fresh-Out-Of-College Sam lacked the confidence and still held enough sanity to realize breaking into a building full of cops was a really terrible idea.  Which made him a horrible breaking-and-entering partner. 

Technically, Sam wasn’t breaking in.  Dean was.  His gargantuan brother was just acting as support.  Six and a half feet of it. 

“Are you sure this is how we did it in your dream, Dean?” the whiney moose whined, wincing as Dean purposefully dug his heel into his giant shoulders.

“Just shut up and lift, Sammy. I’ve almost got it.”

“It’s Sam.”

Dean was gonna kill him.   Right after he covered his loud mouth in duct tape.

“Right.  Sam.  Short for Sam-fucking-amantha.  The whiniest bitch in all of-”  The latch lifted with a click and Dean broke out in a grin.  “Aha!  Got it!” 

He hoisted himself up, reveling in his young, strong muscles.  Dude, growing old sucked.  He wiggled his way through the narrow window.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief as his brother’s feet finally left his sore shoulders.  He was going to have bruises.  He watched Dean pass through the window, shoulders then torso and hips.  Suddenly, he disappeared altogether with a crash and a muffled yelp from the other side of the wall.

“…Dean?”

A hand waved floppily at him through the window.  He heard another crash and several expletives as Dean made his way out of the supply room.

This was a terrible idea.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1:  Chapter 11

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Crowley was done.  He was beyond done with everything.  Not only was he now an unwilling participant of the Apocalypse he’d spent years planning to avoid, bound by contract in his own damn trade, but his talents were once more wasted playing the friggin’ messenger.  Again.

Letting the whole world burn was looking more appetizing by the minute. 

The King of the Crossroads scuffed the toe of his favorite Italian leather shoes against the dirt with more force then necessary.  He’d have his tailor buff those clean when he got home.  Someone deserved to suffer his indignation.

There was a rustle to his left and he huffed.  Finally.

A beast emerged from the forest, massive paws pressing down lose dirt and sticks and leaves.  Fiery amber eyes regarded the demon as the thing settled on its haunches.

“Tokorum,” Crowley greeted with a nod of his head and no mention of how the damn animal was two hours late.  “Pleasure as always.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Crowley.”  His voice was a rumble that rolled across the demon’s awareness.  He resisted the shiver that started at the base of his neck and crawled down his spine.  Damn telepaths. 

“I am a fantastic liar.  I’m just not putting in any effort.”  He pulled his hands from his pockets.  Pleasantries exchanged, it was time to get down to business.  Thank Satan.  “We have a task for you.”

The fur along the thing’s back rose as it bristled.  His trunk swung to the side in indignation.  “I am not your servant.”

Crowley clenched his teeth.  Good God Almighty, was he ever done.  “It’s a paid task.”

The beast settled almost immediately.  The old ones were always so much testier, and Tokorum was a right bastard compared to most of his kind.   Crowley had not been thrilled to be the one dealing with the thing.  But, as Azazel pointed out, he had the most history with the creature. 

Yay for him.

“What is the payment?”

“Ten souls.”

The words had hardly finished passing his lips when Tokorum countered.  “One hundred.”

Crowley balked.  At first, because he thought the beast was joking.  And then again when he realized that was not the case.  He stared at the thing in both shock and disgust.  “Well, aren’t we greedy,” he mocked, eyeing the enormous monster from head to tail.  “Perhaps you should reconsider, darling.  You’re starting to get a bit chubby.”

The growl was a physical one, and it rumbled through the earth as paws shifted in agitation across the ground.  Crowley hardly batted an eye.  Tokorum did not scare him in the slightest.

“Damned souls are not as good.”

The demon rolled his eyes.  “You don’t even know what the job is.”

“No job is worth only ten.”

“Yes, well, damned souls are more expensive.  Less of them, you see.”  Crowley gave a grim smile, the one that said ‘don’t negotiate with me, I’m the bloody king, sweetheart.’  “I'll give you fifteen.”

“Seventy-five.  I must insist, Fergus.”

Bloody telepaths.

It was the demon’s turn to growl low in his throat.  It was a warning that the beast would not survive the meeting much longer.  Hell and its plan be damned. 

“You know what?”  Crowley suddenly brightened, straightening with a wide smile.  “I’m in a generous mood.”  Mostly because he wanted this meeting to be over as much as the damn creature.  “Let’s call it an even fifty, and I get to rip your heart out and feed it to your prey if you ever use THAT BLOODY NAME AGAIN.”

The creature’s curled ears twitched at the volume change.  Crowley released a deep breath, straightened his tie, and regained his demonic composure.

“What is the task?”

That was more like it.  “We need John Winchester.  Alive and whole.”

“No.”

Crowley gave it more than a few moments thought before he decided that burning the entire woods to the ground would be a touch dramatic.  People would probably talk.  So instead focused his rage into a sharp huff. 

The dumb beast did not seem especially grateful that his life was being spared by Crowley’s self-control. 

“A hunter like that has a reputation, Crowley, one that spreads quickly.  We have avoided the attention of such men for centuries by not courting their attention.”

“You don’t need to approach him,” Crowley answered with a roll of his eyes.  “We’ll handle that.  We just need to know where he is.”

The beast regarded him.  But the demon could already see he had won.  He always could, especially when it came to the desperate or greedy.  And Tokorum was certainly one of those things.   After a moment, the creature gave a nod and rolled his head and shoulders to the side as he moved back into the forest.

“I’ll be hearing back from you shortly, then?”

The beast paused, looking back over his shoulder at the king of the crossroads.  His amber eyes conveyed his annoyance at the falsely sweetened condescension, as had been the intention. 

“It will not take long.  Everyone sleeps eventually.  Even hunters.”

-o-o-o-

Dean sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, staring at the leather jacket in his lap.  His old leather jacket.  Well, his now.

It had been in a second evidence box next to the one he’d gone looking for at the Jericho Police Department.  He knew the cops would eventually find the hotel room, even without the brothers to accidentally tip them off to it.  But to be honest, he’d forgotten about his Dad’s jacket.

He’d missed that thing.

Sam watched his older brother as he stared down at their dad’s jacket like it was a bomb rigged to blow at the slightest jolt.  He really had no clue what was going on with him, but he was pretty much at wits end about it.

“Let’s find him.”  His brother looked up as Sam stared expectantly at him.  “We need to find him, Dean.”

That seemed to jostle the older man out of his morose thoughts and he leaned forward to finally pull the thing on.  It felt good to wear it again.  “No, we gotta keep hunting.  Demon say so.”

“What do you think Dad’s doing?” Sam balked, incredulity and frustration growing on his features.  “He’s hunting, and we can help.  We need to help.  Hell, we probably know more about the yellow-eyed-demon at this point than he does!”

“Don’t count on it,” Dean muttered under his breath.  He could still hear John’s words, pressed against his ear, the last thing he ever said to him.  Kill Sammy.  Yeah, fuck going and finding John Winchester.  The man knew plenty and had never shared it with them.

Besides, if there really was any hope of saving him then Dean and Sam needed to stay away.  That’s how the demons had caught him the first time, it was how Azazel got to him the second time, and it was the reason he ended up in Hell after all of it.

Nope, John was safer if they just stayed the hell away.  And so were they.

“Look, we don’t even know where he is.  His cell’s still off.  Last we heard he was here and he’s clearly not here anymore.  Trail’s gone cold, Sam.  So drop it.”  Dean gestured emphatically for his brother to get them back on the road.  They had places to be and none of them were Jericho, California.

Sam’s jaw was clenched tighter than a dog with a bone, but he turned the key in the ignition (maybe a bit harder than necessary, to Dean’s chagrin) and pulled back onto the highway.

-o-o-o-

They still saved people.  People that maybe hadn’t been saved the first time around. 

The skinwalker in Indiana was definitely off-menu once they got to it.  Dean would have remembered a guy posing as an alligator in the sewers and a Sasquatch in the woods just out of town in order to draw some tourism and help generate income for the small bookshop his girlfriend ran on the main drag.  Apparently, the store specialized in tales of urban legends and fictional beasts.

The brothers ended up letting that one live once he proved he wasn’t the one mauling people to death.  Turned out?  Actual rabid dog.  That shit never happened for real.  

So much so that, for a while there, Dean was looking for candy wrappers at the crime scenes.

They did manage to save a pair of kids from an ugly end and put the unfortunate pooch down.  Couldn’t get the older girl out of the six painful rabies shots to the gut, though.  She got her arm munched on protecting her baby brother from the dog before the hunters showed. 

Dean gave the kid mad props.

Other cases were more familiar.  They managed to avoid the entire ‘I’m not a sadist and a murderer’ shapeshifter fiasco by catching the freak before he had the opportunity to knock Dean out.  That case he sure as shit remembered.  Which was GREAT; emphasis on the all caps.  He didn’t have to imagine how many times he wouldn’t be asked if he was the same Dean Winchester from St. Louis. 

You know.  The dead, rapey one.

The déjà vu itself was weird as hell.  Sometimes he could tell you exactly what was about to occur, but in a fuzzy, dreamlike way that gained clarity only right before it happened.  He’d saved himself a nasty cut to the shoulder from a werewolf by remembering a second before the swing to friggin’ duck this time.

Other times he repeated the same course of action, no matter how rotten his gut felt or how hard he tried to recall why.  In Twin Falls, he’d tripped over a dog, tangled himself in the owner’s leash, and ended up with a black eye courtesy of a lamp post after having appreciated a woman walking past.  He hadn’t remembered that happening until he saw Sam laughing so hard he was crying.  Yeah.  That part he recalled perfectly. 

Sometimes, the same shit happened no matter how hard Dean avoided it.  They’d caught the Hook Man case again, and he remembered the Pastor’s daughter being the cause.  But the same people still died, despite burning her silver cross necklace two days sooner.  This time around, the Hookman worked on an accelerated schedule, like what had happened was supposed to happen, no matter what the brothers did to change it. 

Dean wanted to find Time and punch the bitch in the face. 

She could at least be consistent.  She could, you know, not give him hope that things could change – that they could save people this time that hadn’t been saved, that he could stop the apocalypse from happening, that he could stop Sam from dying – only to yank it away in a single hunt that showed Dean he really had no control at all.

He cursed Cas’s name over and over again because he could.  The guy could have at least left him with a manual or something.  Some friggin’ instructions for this crap.  A whole chapter on self-help entitled ‘Yes, You Can Change the Future’ would be good by him.

The worst bit about being from the future, though, was being with Sam.  Don’t get him wrong; it was great – fan-freaking-tastic, actually – to see his kid brother again, lighter than he’d been in a decade and years before the various rifts that would drive them apart and back again.  Some days Dean forgot when he was from and what he had to do.  Some days he just enjoyed the drive, the banter, and the life.

But letting his guard down meant forgetting that he wasn’t the Dean this Sam knew.  That this wasn’t the Sam he knew, or at least not the most recent Sam that he knew.

It meant mentioned that time they’d caught that lucky rabbit foot case and Sam had been a literal walking disaster.

Only, Sam had no idea what he was talking about, and Dean had to awkwardly scramble and play if off like it had been Garth.  Because who wouldn’t confuse the mouse that was Garth with the Moose that was Sam Winchester.  The two were just so similar.

He couldn’t police what he said all the time, though.  When he tried early on, he didn’t last the day before he was so exhausted and frustrated that he ended up mostly tongue-tied any time he tried to speak.  Sam had eyed him worriedly, to which he’d finally snapped. When the epic rant (that had made absolutely no sense to either party and was mostly just grunts and wordless yells) finally finished, his brother told him to stop PMSing, Dean called him a bitch, got a jerk in return, and that was that.  Dean decided he’d just get by saying whatever came to mind, as usual.  He’d be no good to the future if he spent all his time thinking.

So he slipped up.  A lot.  Sam’s Bitchface #12 became official in Dean’s count.  The younger Winchester used it.  A lot. 

The older brother categorized the look as the most monotone of bitchfaces, and although it had several sub-versions of ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and ‘Where are you getting this from?’, the most base expression boiled down to ‘you are lying to me.’

Dean hated that face.

On top of all that, he was pretty sure his brother was keeping a list of his own.  He’d play on his phone or pull out the laptop as inconspicuously as possible, especially when he thought Dean was asleep.  The older hunter couldn’t be sure (he hadn’t managed to find the file yet and Sam seemed to police his electronics a lot more carefully than he remembered) but he knew his kid brother.  And suspicion always led to sleuthing.  Which meant keeping lists. 

There was crap that he could do about it, even if he did find whatever Sammy was always writing down.  It wasn’t like he could delete it without raising more suspicion.  And trying to address it off hand would go about as well as sneaking out of the motel room with clown shoes on.  Dean wasn’t the most graceful when it came to subtlety.

Besides, even with Sam being far from stupid, there was still only about a 0.1% chance in hell that ‘time travel’ would be among the theories he came up with.

Instead, there was just a growing tension pervading their brotherhood.  It was a tension he was uncomfortably familiar with.  Which royally sucked, because damn it, this was supposed to be before all of that.  Back when they were just brothers, before the lies and the distrust.  Sure, it wasn’t nearly as negative as it would be in the future (wouldn’t be, Dean reminded himself, you’re going to stop all that) but it was still there.  

And it sucked.

-o-o-o-

“I want another go.”

Azazel glanced sidelong at the voice bubbling up through the goblet of blood on Amanda Stutson’s white and pink dresser.  She was six months old today, sleeping peacefully in the crib beneath him.  Her mother was still choking on her own life liquid, ever weakening fingers clasping at her slashed throat as she leaked impressive amounts of blood all over her daughter’s pristine carpet. 

Really, white in a nursery was just asking for trouble.

The yellow eyed demon gave little Amanda’s cheek a soft stroke and big brown eyes sleepily opened.  Her daddy had unwittingly sold her humanity to him seven years ago exactly in exchange for a successful climb up the company ladder and a soon-to-be-dead wife far too pretty to actually be interested in him. 

“Get me topside, and I’ll get you Dean Winchester.”

Azazel regarded the goblet with distaste.  His daughter may be his creation, turned by his own blade and trained from the moment she’d taken the knife under her hand, but that didn’t mean much more to a demon than pride. 

And right now, he was not feeling particularly proud.

“You didn’t last an hour with them.”

He could picture her face, charred and twisted with the very essence of evil that had warped them all, scrunched into something pissy at his words.  He could hear it in her voice.  “Dean’s definitely on the take.  I don’t know who’s feeding him information, but it’s in real time.”

Azazel raised an eyebrow at that.  If that information was right, it severely limited the number of things that could be assisting Dean Winchester.  There weren’t many creatures that could speak and not be seen by a demon. 

A psychic perhaps.  They hadn’t considered human involvement as the wrench in their plans.  But if some upstart psychic saw what was coming and decided to change it….

A powerful psychic like, say, a prophet?

“Did he say how he knew?” He rolled up his sleeve, smiling down at the baby who was beginning to wake up, kicking her little feet and starting a fuss.  She must be hungry.  He would help with that.

“Said I tasted like sulfur.”  Her father’s skeptic silence was question enough.   “I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit, but considering he tasted like righteousness….”

Azazel chuckled lightly at her disgust and held his wrist out over the crib, digging his nail into his skin hard enough to slice through the fleshy meatsuit.

“I can still get to him,” his daughter insisted once more, blood bubbling with determination.  She had always been a stubborn thing.  He’d liked that about her the minute he’d dug his blade into her soft belly. 

“How?”  Little Amanda blinked in shock when something warm splashed onto her lips and chubby cheeks. 

“I’ll go through Sam.”  When he scoffed, she continued, “Worst case, you get to find out if he’s in on it too, or if it’s just Dean.  But I don’t think he is.  And I’ll get to them through him.”

Azazel did not immediately answer, instead watching Amanda’s little tongue slide out experimentally with the lack of coordination that came with still growing muscles.  In the face of his silence, his daughter’s stubborn hold-out caved to begging.  “Just get me topside, and I’ll get you what you need.”

Amanda began to cry as the metallic tang bit at her tongue and she tasted evil. 

“I need the Colt.”

The silence that followed from the goblet spoke volumes as to what he was asking.  On the other end, trapped in Hell and desperate to once more escape, his daughter hesitated.   A human reaction that had not been carved completely out of her.  Should she fail again, he’d have to correct that mistake.

“Okay,” she agreed reluctantly, voice bolstering with determination he knew she did not feel.  “But one thing at a time.  Sam Winchester first.”

“I’ll find you a gate.”  With that, the blood silenced and settled.  Amanda was kicking up quite a fit now, and Azazel heard the telltale sounds of a waking father in the hall.

“Honey?  Is there someone in there with you?”

The demon stroked the infant’s cheek, swiping up the missed blood and painting her lips red with it.  Looked like little Amanda would be growing up an orphan.

-o-o-o-

Dean was fishing off the dock in the mountains again.  He was halfway through his first beer and his line hadn’t caught anything yet.  That didn’t usually happen until after Cas showed up.

“We need to talk.”

Speak of the angel.

Dean looked up at the man, haloed by the sun as he always was when he first appeared by the hunter’s side.  Sometimes he wondered if Cas did it on purpose, or if that bit was all him.  Giving an angel a halo of light.

He snorted.  There was something wrong with his head.  Really.

“Dean.”

“So talk,” he bit out, looking back out at the lake.  He still remembered his last dream with Not-Real-Cas and the way the angel looked when he asked why he had let the devil in.  So nonplussed, like the answer was obvious and Dean was just another stupid human too small to comprehend.

Just thinking about it pissed him off.

Castiel was silent long enough for Dean to get even more annoyed.  He refused to look at him – at what his mind had summoned up as his best friend, because the guy next to him wasn’t real – but he knew his friend was staring at him with that hurt look on his face, and he didn’t want to see it.  He was the one who was hurting, he was the one who deserved answers here.  Not Cas.

“You need to be more careful.  The changes you’re making, they will not go unseen.”  Dean didn’t answer, instead focusing a morose and angry glare on the line sunk into the lapping water.  He waited for the inevitable tug.   “Dean, I am serious.  The demons have already taken notice.  Meg was just the first.”

The hunter straightened in the camping chair, finally looking at the angel.

Son of a bitch.

Of course it was Meg.  He’d known that stupid smirk and bitch attitude.  How had he not picked up on that sooner?  No, he had to wait for his brain to figure it out and tell him via Fake-Dream-Cas-Chat.  He must be more of a masochist then he thought to keep putting himself through this shit.

“What am I supposed to do then, huh?  You didn’t leave me with much to go on, Cas!”  He stood up, leaving behind the pole and fish to face the angel.  They’d always been the same height, but every time he got into Castiel’s personal space the angel had a habit of somehow looking up at him.  Like Dean had more than even odds at being the stronger of the two. 

It should have been his first clue when it was Lucifer wearing those eyes.

Dean turned away, fists clenching.

“You are angry with me.”

“Hell yes I am, Cas!”  He spun back to his best friend, gesturing between the two of them with his hand.  “You and me?  We’re not okay, and we’re not going to be okay until you can tell me why you let Lucifer ride you for weeks.  Explain it to me in a way that this stupid human can comprehend!”

Castiel frowned at the hunter.  He didn’t need to ask what it was he should be explaining. 

“You are far from stupid, Dean.”  The man considered punching the angel in the face for yet again avoiding the question.  But he didn’t have to.  “I needed to be…useful.”

Something inside the hunter lurched at the words.  It was something angry and it was something hurt.

“What?”  Dean waivered, staring at the angel who looked no bigger than a man.  “No, seriously, what?”

 Castiel shifted, uncomfortable, and Dean was suddenly flooded with cold.  Like a bucket of ice water being poured over a pleasant memory.  This, this felt too real.  All of a sudden, he was no longer dreaming.  This was him and Cas, and something was trying to claw its way up his throat and choke him.

“Cas…Why doesn’t this feel like a dream?”

The angel gave him a sidelong look – one of his old, fierce ones that told him to stop asking questions.

“You need to be more careful, Dean.  The waves you’re making, they are getting too big.”  The angel took a step forward, forcing the hunter to counter with a step back, lest they be all but pressed together.  And two dudes didn’t do…that. 

“This plan- Hell’s plan, Heaven’s plan, my Father’s plan- it has been in motion for a millennia, and written in stone for far longer.  You cannot stop following the script without those who have read it a thousand times noticing your alterations.”

Dean swallowed heavily, staring into those piercing blue irises.  “Then what am I supposed to do, Cas?”

The angel watched him, eyes darting back and forth between his own.  “You must let some things happen, Dean.  Somethings must stay the same.”

The hunter wet his lips nervously.  He could feel the warmth of Castiel’s body so close to his own.  Could feel the ends of the trench coat brush against his jeans in the breeze.  Something….something wasn’t right here.

Castiel had never given off warmth as an angel.  Vessels were always oddly cold. 

“Cas,” he breathed and he swore the angel swayed closer.  “Are you really here?”

The angel put a hand to his chest and something in Dean flared for a moment, so brief he wasn’t sure it had happened at all.  So confusing he was sure he made it up.  Then Cas pushed and Dean was tumbling backwards into the water.

-o-o-o-

He woke with a gasp, hand to his chest and lungs telling him not to breathe because it would be a mouthful of lake he inhaled.  The hunter still choked, despite being in a hotel room, sitting upright in bed and definitely not in the water surrounded by fall leaves and fish.

Sammy was sitting in the bed across from him, legs over the side and a scrap of paper gripped his hands.  Dean let his breathing calm down to manageable levels before he even attempted to speak.  His brother beat him to it.

“Did you have a vision?”

The older hunter wanted to groan.  God, he was sick of lying to Sam, and he was even more sick of hearing that question.  “No,” he answered, chest still heaving and fighting valiantly to sound normal.  “I…I don’t know.”

Because what the hell had that been?  For a second there…he’d sworn he’d felt Cas.  The angel had been there, in his head, like the good old days.  But that wasn’t possible.  It wasn’t.

‘Cas?’ he whispered the prayer, sending it upwards with a thought of the nerd angel and heaven.  ‘Castiel?’

Nothing happened, and Dean tried not to be disappointed.  Of course it hadn’t been him.  He was ten years in the future, lying dead in a graveyard.  Right next to Sammy. 

“Dean?”  He looked over at to his little brother, who was very much alive despite the slightly ashen pallor of his skin.  “I had one.”

That got the hunter’s attention, and he straightened up, hand falling from his chest.  “A vision?”

Sam nodded, fingers tightening around the paper in his hand.  No, not paper.  A picture.

“I think…I think we have to go back home.  Back to Kansas.”

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 12

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean needed time to think.

How was it possible he’d bought himself ten years of borrowed time, and still he needed more?

He remembered the case. How could he forget?  It was one of the hardest cases he and Sam had ever worked, solely because it was so damn personal.  It was his mom.  And it all started with a solid crack straight through the foundation of his entire world view.  It was when black and white, supernatural and normal, human and monster, turned grey.

And smack dab in that new grey block was little Sammy.

Overwhelmed hadn’t quite covered Dean’s emotional turmoil that day.

This time around wasn’t going much better.  He hadn’t wanted to go home ten years ago, when he’d promised himself he would never set foot in that town again.  He didn’t want to go home now, not after he’d kept that promise going forward.  They’d never gone back to Lawrence, Kansas.

At least, not without dick angels sending him there involuntarily thirty years in the past (and then voluntarily, but almost dying to do it – ‘weakened’ my ass.)

That town did not have good memories.  And Dean did not feel particularly inclined to try his luck at making new ones.

He swallowed, but his throat was dry and there was nothing to go down.  Sam was watching him, a storm building that he didn’t have the radar capacity to see coming.

“Dean, did you hear what I said?  I’m dreaming about our old house.  That’s where it all started, right?  That has to mean something!” Sam was standing, body tense and agitation coursing through him like a drug.  Dean couldn’t split his brain power between watching his brother pace like a caged animal and figuring out what the hell he was going to do.

“I know, I just….I need a minute, okay?”

He just needed half a second to think.

“What do you mean, you need a minute?  That woman might be in danger, Dean.  I mean, this might be the Yellow Eyed Demon, the thing that killed mom!” 

Dean couldn’t breathe.  He didn’t want to go home; he didn’t want to see Mary’s ghost, didn’t want to see his mom again, just as he remembered her – his last memory of her – only to lose her once more.  Didn’t want to see her on fire, burning.  He just needed a minute to figure out how to breathe again.

Sam dropped his arms, staring at his brother in disappointment and irritation.  His teeth ground against each other as he looked away, hurt flaring into indignation.  “You know what?  You can do whatever you want.  I’m going back to Lawrence and I’m saving those people.”

He grabbed his jacket on his way out, throwing the door open and not bothering to shut it.          

Dean swore, taking half a moment to throw a hissy fit before he scrambled off the bed and after his brother.  Damn it, what the hell had crawled up Sammy’s ass that he couldn’t give him five minutes to think through just hopping in the car and driving back to the one place he had no intention of ever returning.

Sam was almost past the Impala by the time Dean caught up to him and made a grab for his arm.  The taller man spun and Dean, instincts screaming, immediately let go and took a step back.  Sam was half a move away from punching him, body language screaming the hit was incoming.  He kept himself in check but just barely, and Dean raised his hands in a truce.

“I’m not gonna stop you, Sam.  But can we at least pack up the damn car first?”

Sam glanced at the Impala, to the boxers and t-shirt his brother was clad in, to the hotel room door still open behind them.  Shame at his impulsive behavior tinted his cheeks red.  He looked away, still angry as hell, but a little guilt-ridden too.

“Yeah, alright.”

“Okay.”  Dean dropped his hands and his brother pushed past him to re-enter the motel in the early morning light.  The older Winchester let out a rough sigh, tugging at his hair.

‘Guess you get your wish, Cas.  Guess some things are staying the same.’

-o-o-o-o-

In the car on their way to Kansas, in a silence that had reached the peak of tension between the two brothers, Dean finally cleared his throat.  “It’s not ‘cuz of your visions.”

Sam had been waiting and immediately snapped in response, “I know that I don’t have them as often as you do, but that doesn’t mean they’re not important – that they don’t mean something.”

The way he spat it out made Dean’s stomach turn.  Because that was his little brother, hurting and angry that Dean was treating him like a kid.  Hurting because he felt like his brother didn’t take him seriously.

Hurting because he wasn’t as good as Dean. 

The older brother had seen it over the years, when Sam struggled to pick up target shooting as well as Dean had.  When John would take Dean on a hunt and leave Sam behind because he wasn’t ready yet.

When John gave Dean the Impala.

It had taken him years – roughly another four from this point in the timeline – to realize that his brother was often jealous of him and hurting that, in a family of hunters, he just didn’t belong.  It had been baffling when he’d finally seen it (when Bobby had finally hit him over the head with it, really).  Because Sam was amazing.  He was a genius, and kind, and good.  And Dean…God, Dean wasn’t any of those things.

He was nothing to be jealous of.

Sammy wasn’t supposed to want visions.  And he certainly wasn’t supposed to be jealous of Dean having them too.  Damn it, lying about having psychic dreams was supposed to make things better, not worse!

Sometimes he wondered if Time was just standing aside, watching Dean shoot himself in the foot repeatedly and getting a kick out of it.

“That- that’s not- Sam, I know they’re important!  And the people you see, we’re going to save every one of them.  It wasn’t…It wasn’t the visions.” Dean swallowed.  He chanced a glance at his brother, who was watching him intensely.  “I don’t want to go back.  I promised myself I’d never go back.”

In a moment, Sam deflated.  He was still angry, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, but his older brother rarely sounded so vulnerable.  So honest.  “We have to save that family.”

“I know.”  Dean nodded firmly, fingers tight on the steering wheel as he watched the road pass by.  “And we will.  Just…give me a break, alright?”

Sam didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either. 

-o-o-o-

They got into Lawrence too late to knock on Jenny Richardson’s door – on their door.  So the two hunters found a motel on the outskirts of town to bunker down and catch some sleep for the night. 

Sam was on the bed with his laptop out, watching his brother triple check their arsenal with the efficiency of a hunter dreading the hunt. 

“You haven’t seen anything, have you?”

Dean paused in his dismantling of his Remington 0870 sawed-off to look over nonchalantly.  “Nah, nothing recently.” 

Sam saw his brother’s arm move towards his chest, only to stop as the man noticed what he was doing and resume his maintenance of the gun.   He wondered if Dean realized it was a tell.

“When are you going to stop lying to me, man?”

His brother sent him an offended glare.  “I’m not lying to you, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.  And yes, you are.  You’re not even good at it!”  He swung his legs over the bed, sitting up and setting his computer aside.  “I’m not stupid, Dean.  You’re different; you have been since Jericho.  If you saw something-”

“I didn’t see anything, Sam.  And I am not different.”

Sam’s face twitched in a humorous smile.  “Where’s your necklace?”

Dean froze, and Sam could see him swallow from across the room.  “What?”

“The amulet I gave you the Christmas you told me the truth.”  The younger Winchester’s gaze bore straight through every lie his brother hid behind.  “It’s never not been on your neck for fourteen years, Dean.  So where is it?”

Damn.  Dean had hoped Sammy wouldn’t notice.  He should have known better.  But the minute he’d seen in, that first night at Sam and Jess’s apartment….he hadn’t been able to stomach the sight of it.  Of what it represented.  Of the god it would never find, who didn’t give a crap when they tried.  The dead beat dad who abandoned his kids and called it a lesson

Just didn’t feel right on his skin anymore.

So he’d stashed it in his go-bag and hadn’t thought of it since.

“I’ve done every test imaginable to make sure you’re you.  But you’re not you.”  Sam stood from the bed, but didn’t approach his brother, who was refusing to look at him.  “I can’t help if you won’t talk to me!”

The older hunter opened and closed his mouth half a dozen times, but the truth was he had no clue what to say.  God, he wanted to share the load.  Doing this alone was killing him.  He needed someone to talk to.  He needed his brother.

But he couldn’t. 

Some things had to stay the same.

“Fine.”  Sam let out a huff and shook his head.  He turned in for the night and the tension between the brothers got worse.

-o-o-o-

The Impala sat outside the old Winchester house.

Sam glanced at his brother, at the tense hands still wrapped on the steering wheel despite the cooling engine.  At the tense posture and the occasional, harried glances at the house through the corner of the windshield.

“Dean-”

“Don’t, Sammy.”  Dean swallowed heavily and shook his head.  “I can’t.  So just don’t.”

“…You gonna be okay, man?” 

It was an olive branch.  Dean reached for the door handle and forced himself out of the car.

“Ask me again when this is over.”  He slammed Baby’s door harder than he meant to, and gave her a brief brush of his fingertips in apology before crossing the street with his brother and heading for the house where everything in their lives had first gone wrong. 

-o-o-o-

Jenny was just as warm and friendly as he remembered.  And just as hurting, stressed, and scared by the thing plaguing her house. 

Sam took them through the motions, and Dean didn’t say much until the woman mentioned the clogged sink. 

“Don’t call a plumber.”

Jenny blinked, and both she and his brother looked at him questioningly.  He cleared his throat.

“Uh, don’t call a plumber.  We’ll- we’ll take care of the sink for you.”

Sam’s eyebrows reached for his hairline, but Dean shook his head.  They had a lot better chance of not losing an arm than the guy she’d call in.

And he sort of recalled a liability battle the poor woman had to fight, so they might as well save her from that as well.

-o-o-o-

“You hate handy work,” Sam said as they left the house much later that day than they had first time around.  Dean was wearing someone else’s dress shirt that didn’t fit him, which Jenny had handed over with a look of such heartbreak that the hunter almost told her wearing his soaking wet one would be fine.  “And where did you learn how to fix a sink?”

Oh, sometime during the year he’d spent playing house with an incredibly patient woman and her awesome kid in an attempt at an apple pie life he could never really have.

“Shut up,” he grumbled as he opened the door to the impala.  “There’s a poltergeist in the house.  Really don’t think we should introduce more civilians for it to eat.  Do you?”

Sam stopped, staring at his brother from across the hood of the car.  “Poltergeist?”

Dean stared hard at his brother.  God, he was tired of lying, he was tired of having to worry about lying, and he was tired of slipping up all the damn time and trying to back pedal out of it.  He was just tired.   

“Sari said it was on fire.  A figure on fire, Dean.  That doesn’t sound like a poltergeist.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t sound like a demon, either.  And that’s what killed mom.”  He opened the door and slid into the car.  End of conversation, check please!

Sam didn’t have a response to that, so he climbed inside the car after his brother.  “We need to get them out of that house.”

“We will.”

“No, now, Dean!”

The older hunter closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the Déjà vu added to his irritation.  He didn’t know what to do.  He didn’t even know what he wanted to do, let alone what he could do.  Because so far, all the normal cases had been pretty easy.  Either suck it up and bide his time, or start changing things.

This wasn’t a normal case, he had no idea what he would even change – what he should change – if he could change anything at all.  It sucked so badly.

“What would we do if it was a normal case?”  He asked the question aloud, but he was asking himself more than anything. 

Sam stared at him like he was crazy for a moment, before he sagged.  “We’d work it, dig into the history of the house.  Find out what happened.”

Dean nodded, turning the key in the engine.  “Then that’s where we start.”

His little brother was quiet as they pulled away from their old house.  But he looked at his older brother and softly asked, “Does this feel like a normal case to you?”

He was so sick of hearing questions he’d heard before.  Like a broken record on repeat, with ten year skips.  Unsure of what he said the first time around, he didn’t say anything at all.  It was becoming his new default response.

-o-o-o-

They stopped at a gas station to use a phone book to find the garage their dad used to work at.  Dean remembered he’d been a mechanic, but he couldn’t recall the name of the shop. 

Sam left him to it, telling him he needed to make a bathroom run.

As he rounded the corner of the gas station towards the bathrooms on the side of the building, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the second speed dial.  He checked over his shoulder to make sure Dean was still at the phone booth.

“Dad?”  He faltered slightly, realizing he had no clue what to say.  He was sort of winging it, here.  “Dad, it’s Sam.  I’m with Dean and we’re in Lawrence, back…back home.  I think there’s something in our old house, and I think it has something to do with Mom’s death.  If, uh…If you get this, get here.  Dean could really use you, Dad.  He’s taking it pretty rough...”

He hung up and headed back before his brother suspected anything.

-o-o-o-

“A palm reader?  Do you know which one?”

Dean was trying really hard not to swear up and down like a sailor as his brother talked with their dad’s old shop partner.  Because shit if he knew what he was going to do about Missouri Moseley.  He’d be lucky if that hellfire of a woman didn’t oust him on the spot. 

But some things had to stay the fucking same, didn’t they?

Especially since the second he suggested he not tag along with Sam, that maybe he go check out other leads, he got the angry, don’t-you-dare version of Bitchface #12. 

God, he hated that face.

 -o-o-o-

Dean shoved everything he was thinking deep, deep down in his head when Missouri came into the sitting room that served as the little foyer for her business. 

She grabbed Sam’s hand, and the sasquatch listened in amazement as she asked about their missing father and expressed her condolences for his recent breakup.  She turned to Dean next, and he withdrew physically as well as mentally, letting no part of himself within reach of the psychic.

Missouri narrowed her eyes at him, regarding him curiously.  “What is it you don’t want me to know, Dean?”

Sam’s expression flattened and Dean stubbornly refused to look at him.  “Can we just get on with what we came for?”

“What did you come for?”

Dean glared at the woman.  He’d never liked Missouri, mostly because she didn’t like him and he took some offense to that.  Yeah, he knew he was fucked up and anyone with access to his head probably wouldn’t like him very much either.  But she didn’t have to take it out on him as publically or humiliatingly as possible. 

“You’re the psychic, aren’t you?”

Missouri’s eyes narrowed dangerously and she took a step forward, forcing Dean back like a terrified colt.  “Boy, you see me sawin’ some bony tramp in half?  You think I’m a magician?  I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies but I can’t just pull facts outta thin air!”

Dean reared back.  How the hell had he stepped in that one twice?

The plump woman turned back to Sam, smiling gently.  “So, you’re father’s missing and there’s something in your old house?”

Dean gave up entirely when he got yelled at for not putting his feet on the coffee table again.

-o-o-o-

Standing in the destroyed kitchen, holes punched through walls, knives sticking out of cabinet doors, and a heavy silence reigning over the household, Sam turned to Missouri and asked her if it was over.  If she was sure.  There was worry etched on his features, alongside something else.  Dean had seen that expression before, so when Missouri said she was sure, Dean already knew she was wrong.  And when his brother expressed doubt, he agreed with him this time. 

It changed nothing.

Jenny came back with the kids and kicked them out of her trashed house as politely as possible, Missouri headed home, and Sam and Dean still ended up camped outside the house in the Impala to wait for the worst so they could break into the house without scaring the crap out of the woman or having her call the cops.

“Did you feel it too?”

Dean glanced at his brother, who was watching the house intently.  “No.  But I trust you, Sammy.”

Sam met his gaze, saw the same olive branch he’d offered that morning now handed back to him.  He gave a small nod, and they were good. 

Not great, but good.

Then Jenny was at the window, banging on the glass and screaming for help.

-o-o-o-

Sam went after the kids and Dean went to get Jenny out of her locked room.  He could smell smoke and fire, and he feared the worst.  But he still grabbed the panicking woman around her middle and hauled her downstairs, trusting his brother to get her kids.

He stopped at the threshold of the front door, remembering taking an ax to it a lifetime ago.  Remembering it as a barrier between him and his brother; a barrier he’d rather be on the other side of this time around.  Jenny turned to him, panic warring with fear. 

“Go!  Jenny, go!”  Dean pushed her through the doorway and turned back into the house as Sam came down the stairs.  He was setting the kids down and looking behind him. 

Sari grabbed her little brother and ran even as Sam’s legs went out from under him and he hit the floor hard.

“Sammy!”  Dean dove past the kids, grabbing at his brother.  He missed by inches as Sam was dragged away from him, pulled by an invisible force.  “Shit!”

The older Winchester scrambled to his feet, only to have a force like a sledgehammer hit him square in the stomach.  He flew backwards with a pained grunt, straight through the front door.  It slammed shut as he hit the concrete below the front steps.

But never let it be said Dean Winchester didn’t roll with the punches.  He was up and on his feet, using the momentum of the toss to make the whole thing look like one badass Assassins Creed move, running full speed for the trunk.  That’s where they kept the ax.

Sammy’ll be fine.  We all lived through this last time.  He’s fine.  He’s fine.

It was an ongoing mantra in his head as he took the stairs two at a time, launching the heavy weapon at the door with the last stride. 

He’s fine.

Swing.  Crash.  Splinter.

He was fine last time.

Swing, crash.  Kick, splinter.  He reached through to try the lock and went back to hacking away at the door when the dead bolt made no difference.

Time wants to stay the fucking same. 

Still gripping the ax, he barreled through the barely intact door, screaming his brother’s name as he headed for the kitchen on instinct. 

You better be fine, Sammy.

His brother was pinned to the cabinets.  He knew, despite seeing it many times in many different places held by so many different things, that he had seen exactly this before and almost sagged in relief.

Sammy was fine.  He’d be fine.  Because some things wouldn’t change.

Dean took a chair to the head before he’d finished the thought.  Splintered wood rained over him as he crashed into the cabinet beside his brother.  Dean slid to the ground, dazed.  Sam tried to call his name, choking on the pressure pressing down on him.

Well.  He was pretty sure that was new.

The hunter let out a surprised cry as something wrapped around his legs and pulled him from the kitchen, down the hall and back towards the damaged front door.  Oh hell no, he was not taking that stair case in a flying leap again.  He knew how freaking lucky he had been not to break something the first time, Assassin or not.

Dean raised the ax with a struggle, slamming it into the ground with as mighty a swing as he could manage while being dragged across the hallway on his stomach.  The blade dug deep and he held on for dear life as the Poltergeist tried to dislocate his legs at the sudden stop.

Light lit up the side of his vision, and he turned his head.  The force holding him dropped, and his bottom half hit the ground with a thud.  He could see fire in the next room, flickering just beyond his line of vision. 

Mom.

Dean scrambled up, struggling for a moment to free the ax from the half foot drag-line he’d buried it in.   Jenny wasn’t going to have much of a house left when they were done.  He slid into the kitchen as his brother cried out, “Wait!  I know who it is…I can see her now.”

His face was lit with the flickering light of her flames. 

Green eyes slid to the figure even as the fire raged and warped and swirled itself out of existence, leaving only Mary Winchester in her nightgown, staring at her boys.  Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Ten years hadn’t healed a damn thing that twenty-two hadn’t already tried and failed.

“Mom,” Sam whispered, watching her in awe and amazement even as he remained trapped, crushed against the wall.

She smiled gently at him, pride and happiness fading into sadness, into regret.  “I’m sorry.”

Dean couldn’t breathe.  Because this time, this time he knew what she was apologizing for.  For making the deal, for selling her child to a demon to save her husband, to get her apple pie life.  For not protecting him that night, for not stopping Azazel.  For leaving them.  For starting everything to come that even she did not know.

Mary turned her back to her boys, standing protectively in front of them. 

“No, mom, don’t,” Dean whispered, taking a step towards the ghost.  Because there had to be a way to kill the poltergeist and still save their mom.  She shouldn’t have to sacrifice herself for them. Not again.

May looked at Dean over her shoulder and smiled so sweetly at him, so happy to see him grown and safe and good.  “I love you.”  Her gaze flickered to Sammy.  “I love you both.”

She turned back around, flames engulfing her as she told the thing threatening her boys to get out of her house.  The fire flared, licking at the ceiling before encapsulating it and burning out to nothing.

The house was silent, the poltergeist and Mary Winchester both gone. 

Dean slid to the ground as Sammy collapsed, heaving for breath now that his lungs could fully expand.  He looked at his older brother, but neither knew what to say.

-o-o-o-

Sam sat on the front steps, watching Dean assure poor Jenny that it was really over.  Despite their reassurances, he was pretty sure she’d be selling the house and moving as soon as possible.  Rough re-start.

Missouri sat down beside him with a deep sigh. 

“What did you sense from my brother?”  The questions wasn’t unexpected, at least not for the psychic.  The tension between the two of them didn’t require supernatural powers to detect.

“I don’t know,” she answered softly, her face thoughtful.  “He is hiding something – something awful big.”

She sensed the anger building in the man beside her, both physically and psychically.  “Oh, honey.”  Missouri raised a hand to lie on the young man’s shoulder, but hesitated at the last second.  “Whatever it is, he’s trying to protect you from it.”

“I don’t need protection!” he burst, but quickly reigned himself back in.  He was a good boy, she knew, and he didn’t mean to take it out on her.  “I need answers.  But he won’t talk to me.”

The Kansas-raised woman lowered her hand back into her lap, unsure how much she should say.  In the end, she already knew she would tell him.  She supposed she’d known for a while now.

“All I got was a flash.  He’s scared of something, and it’s…nasty.  Nothing like the spirit we saw back there,” she glanced back at the house, Sam following her gaze. 

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

She gave a thoughtful hum and looked back at Dean.  He was watching them, but immediately turned back to Jenny as soon as their eyes met. 

“There was a man, with…with black hair.  And his eyes…”

Sam straightened beside her, gaze intense.  “They were yellow?”

She shook her head.  What she’d seen hadn’t been the thing that killed their mom.  It had been far, far worse.

“They were blue.  The bluest eyes I ever seen.”

-o-o-o-

Sam started a new document, still mislabeled so Dean wouldn’t find it should he go looking.  But despite the misnaming, its real title was ‘Cass’.

He copied every scrap of information and lore he could find on the internet relating to any one or thing that could be shortened to the name his brother kept muttering in his sleep.  Anything that had blue eyes.  But eventually, he hit a wall and the black-hole-powered magic that was the internet could take him no further.

“Yeah, Cass.  No, I don’t know how to spell it.  Best guess is C-A-S-S.  Black hair, blue eyes.  Yeah, okay, thanks Bobby.”  He shifted the phone to his other ear as he grabbed a second cup and slid it into the gas station coffee machine.  Sam sent a quick glance over his shoulder, through the store windows to his brother drumming out a beat on the roof of the Impala as he gassed her up. 

“I’m still here,” he answered into the phone as he pulled his French Vanilla Caramel Café Delight away from the spout and capped it with a lid.  He grabbed Dean’s black sludge and headed for the front counter.  “I know it’s not a lot to go on.  Just anything you can find.”

There was a muffled answer of pure gruff down the line.

“Focus on demons, then,” the younger Winchester said quietly just before he approached the bored teenager manning the register.  The kid probably wouldn’t notice a bomb going off in his own store, if the smell coming off him was any indication of just how high he was.

But Sam didn’t want to admit his suspicions out loud, no matter the mental state of the audience.  The niggling idea started on day one and hadn’t left him alone since; that Dean was somehow consorting with a demon, or some other creature, to know what he knew. 

Sam wasn’t an idiot.  The demon that killed their mom hadn’t come back into their lives until he started having visions.  Now Dean was having them as well and a mysterious name Sam had never heard before kept popping up.  Either some demon was after his brother like Azazel was after him, or Dean had done something….something to get an edge up on Hell and whatever the Yellow Eyed Demon had planned.

He didn’t want it to be true, but if it helped them find the thing…

“Start with Cassius Longinus.  Yeah, the Roman general.  There’s enough lore out there about him turning in Hell after Caesar’s assassination that it’s worth checking.”  Sam gave a flat smile to the stoner who raised an eyebrow at the conversation even as he rang up his coffees and packaged donuts.  “History paper.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sam’s smile turned even flatter.  He took his receipt and breakfast, and pushed his way out the doors of the gas station.  “Thanks for doing this, Bobby.”

He got called an idjit before the line cut out.

-o-o-o-

Missouri set her purse down on her front entrance table with a world weary sigh.  That had been a long, hard day.  Physically and mentally.

“That boy,” she said with a shake of her head.  “How he could sense all that, but not his own father, I have no idea.”

John Winchester sat in her living room, running his hands over a tired, aging face.  He was sitting right where his boys had been, less than a day ago now.  Right where he had sat, at the start of it all, almost twenty-two years past.  When he glanced at her, there was real pain in his eyes.  So similar to that day.  He worried at the wedding band still securely wrapped around his finger. 

“Do you think Mary’s spirit really saved the boys?”

He looked exhausted.  She had not seen those dark circles beneath his eyes since the beginning.   This was more than the world-weary state of a hunter.  John’s thoughts were far from her, something she had not before felt from the man or the hunter. 

Missouri watched him from the doorway, concern sparking deep within her chest.  There was something truly dark surrounding these poor boys.  All three of ‘em.

“John, you sleepin’ alright?” 

-o-o-o-

Dean laid his head down on the lumpy pillow and stared up at the popcorn ceiling of their latest fleabag ‘home’.  Sam was snoring in the bed next to him, and the older hunter longed to join him in passed out oblivion.

Only he couldn’t.  He couldn’t get the image of Mary Winchester burning up and onto the ceiling out of his mind.  Dean hadn’t saved her.  He hadn’t changed anything.

How the hell was he supposed to save Sammy this time around, if he couldn’t even save the ghost of their mother?

Aside from Jess, everything was still happening the exact same. 

‘Castiel.’  The prayer slipped out before he could stop himself.  Reaching out to the angel that way had become natural over the years.  Especially when he needed someone to talk to.

Dean had found himself doing it long after Cas stopped answering.  After Van Nuys.  At Lisa’s.  After the reservoir.  And even longer still once the angel lost his ability to hear prayer anymore.  It was something Dean just did.  Sometimes to make himself feel better, sometimes to be less alone in the universe.

And he was so damn alone right now.

‘Cas, please.’  Dean closed his eyes and his palm found its way to his sternum, pressing down against the imagined warmth of an undamaged soul.   At the whole-ness that meant no angel had saved him, no winged warrior of God had pulled his bleeding, broken spirit from the pit and stitched him back together.

No Castiel, no handprint, no profound bond. 

‘If you’re there, man, I need to talk to you.  I don’t know what I’m doing.  I’m not-’  Tears pricked at his eyes and he shut them all the tighter to keep them out.  To keep it all out.  ‘I’m not changing anything, Cas.  I don’t know how to do this.’

There was nothing but silence.  There hadn’t been anything more than that for years.

‘I need you to tell me what to do.  I’m drowning here.’

Eventually, he did slip into oblivion. Try as he might, he did not dream, of angels or otherwise.  When he woke the next morning to the same silence he’d found himself in for months, Dean told himself that being disappointed at a lost cause was pathetic.  That being angry because he’d let himself hope in the first place was a waste. 

The warmth in his chest, the mountain lake he secretly loved and Dream-Cas showing up just when he needed him… They had never been anything more than a broken man imagining away his loneliness.  Silence was all he would ever get when he was done dreaming. 

Typical.

-o-o-o-

Very, very far away, in a kingdom of light and color, one angel out of thousands paused in his heavenly duties, tilting his head to the side as he listened to a voice call out for him again in prayer.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 13

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam woke groggily to the sound of ringing.  It took him a moment to parse the sound as a cell phone.  His brother’s cell phone, specifically.

“Dean.”

The ringing continued and the haphazardly sprawled lump in the bed next to him didn’t move. 

“Dean.”

With a tired sigh, Sam slung his hand over the nightstand, fumbling around for the device.  He didn’t bother looking at the ID.  There were only, like, ten people total who had Dean’s number.  And nine of them were Bobby.

“Hello?”

“Sam, is that you?”

The younger Winchester sat upright slowly, eyes open and wide awake.  “Dad?”  He took a deep breath.  When was the last time he’d heard John’s voice?  But if he was calling… “Are you hurt?”

There was a light huff down the line and he could hear the smile in his dad’s voice.  “I’m fine.”

Something in Sam’s stomach twisted.  John didn’t sound fine, and the audible amusement didn’t cancel out the exhaustion and worry in his father’s voice.  John Winchester didn’t worry.  John Winchester was a rock.

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”  His brother was sitting up now, staring at him.  “The thing that killed mom-“

“It’s a demon, Sam.”

That tripped him up for a moment, and he looked down at the bedding.  So their dad had known more about Yellow Eyes than he’d told his boys.  Sam was getting pretty sick of Dean being right all the time.  “You knew?”

John was silent for a moment, and his son couldn’t tell if it was born from guilt or anger.  “For a little while.”

“Did you know about Jess?”

Dean gestured for the phone, but Sam pulled away.  He was having this conversation, whether his brother wanted him to or not.  His dad let out a bone-tired sigh down the line.

“No.  I swear to you, Sammy.  I’d have done anything to spare you that.”  There was shifting and the sound of metal shaking in an enclosed space.  His dad was calling from a phone booth.  “I’m just glad you boys stopped it.  That’s gotta be a hell of a story; you’ll have to tell it to me sometime.”

“Why not now?”  Sam frowned, fingers tightening on the phone.  “Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that, son.”

“Dad.”

“Sam, give me the phone.”

“I need you to take down these names, Sam.”

“No, Dad, we can help you.”

“Sammy, give me the damn phone.”

The mobile was pulled from his ear forcefully and he bit his tongue hard, fists clenching as he turned to his brother.  Dean was straightening in his seat, eyes darting back and forth as he listened to their father.  Sam knew the second he heard John’s voice that his brother would fall right back into soldier mode and that would be that.  They’d never know where John was.

“Yes, sir.” 

Sam looked back up at his brother.  There was something different in his voice.  Something new, like everything else these days.   Dean met his gaze, and there was anger there, but also something else.  “But you sound like crap.  What’s going on, Dad?”            

It irked him to not be able to hear the other side of the conversation. 

“You don’t sound fine.”  Dean rubbed at his forehead but nodded.  “Yeah, I’m taking them down.” 

Sam moved to grab his brother the motel pad of paper and pen, but he just shook his head. 

“Yeah, we got it, Dad.  Alright.  Take care of yourself.”

Dean snapped the phone shut, and Sam opened his mouth to…he didn’t know.  Scream, shout, rant, argue, rebel, ask what the hell happened to the brother he used to know, and how the hell he could let this go just to take orders from a man who would barely talk to them.    But whatever he was going to say, Dean beat him to it.

“Dad’s in trouble.”

-o-o-o-

“Alright, walk me through it again.  Because I think I’m missing something.”  They were in the Impala once more, less than an hour after their dad had called, heading to Indiana of all places.  While John was back in California.  Sacramento, if Sam knew his area codes (which he did, and he’d double checked on the crappy motel wifi anyway). 

Sam was still trying to wrap his head around whatever the hell was going on.  Like the way his brother had told him, out of nowhere, that John needed help, but they couldn’t go to him.

At least not both of them.

“You’re going to go to some backwater town in the middle of nowhere because Dad gave you the names of six missing persons who have no connection to the place at all.  And I’m going to hitchhike to California?”

Dean rolled his eyes as he urged the Impala to go faster.  There was something close to panic eating at the edges of his gut.   John had made that same call once before, and while he couldn’t remember the details he knew he would have picked up on his dad sounding like death warmed over.

Which meant he hadn’t sounded like he was about to drop last time around.

“The Stepford Couples of Burkittsville, Indiana are sacrificing people – a boy and girl – to a pagan god once a year to keep their perfect little town perfect.”  Another time, he’d have had a million good jokes for that one.  A thousand different perfect movie references.  Maybe even a book or two.  But right now, he was worried about John.  “Dad figured out the pattern.  The couples are going missing in the second week of April.”

“This is the second week of April,” Sam muttered, catching Dean’s drift and not liking it one bit. 

“Bingo.”  The man from the future winced.  There were times the déjà vu felt like vertigo it was so spot on.  He hated the fact that he was still that predictable ten years later. 

“Dean, dad isn’t going to hang around Sacramento for a week!”

“I know.  That’s why you’re going to California.”  Dean pulled the car off the interstate an hour outside Springfield, Illinois.  The same bus station Sam had ended up at the first time, which Dean had spent a painstaking hour that morning trying to remember.  Well…he was pretty sure it was the same one.  Okay, so it ended up being a best guess thing more than actually remembering.

A turn and two streets later, they were parked outside the greyhound depot.  “Two people are going to die if we don’t do something, Sam.  It’ll take too long for another hunter to get here.  I need a day, tops, to make it to Indiana and burn the tree.  Then I’ll catch up.”

Sam was staring at him like he didn’t recognize the man next to him.  Which, okay, kind of fair.  Dean was probably the last person that would ever suggest his family split ways.  But he already knew Sam was going after John and that nothing was going to stop him except his brother being tied up and offered as a sacrifice to a fugly scarecrow god.

Better they just circumvent that entirely this time around.

Plus, unlike last time, John might really need help, even if he couldn’t ask for it.  If Sam didn’t have to go back to save Dean, maybe they’d catch up to him this time.  He really hadn’t liked the way his dad sounded over the phone. 

Something had changed, and they needed to know what. 

“I thought you said you didn’t have a vision.”  Sam was staring at him harshly, hand on the door but not quite ready to let this drop.

“I didn’t.  This was all dad.”

“Right,” his brother scoffed.  “You just happen to know about a pagan god in Indiana, tied to a tree, because Dad gave you six names.”

Dean shut his mouth.  Shit, he hadn’t meant to give that much away.  Had he really given that much away?  He probably should have kept the pagan bit to himself.  And definitely the tree.  Damn it, he really had said all that, hadn’t he? 

It was only further confirmation for Sam. 

“You didn’t get all this from a vision, did you?” 

His older brother physically flinched and refused to look at him.  Missouri had been right.  Whatever had a hold of his brother had him scared.  

“Did ‘Cass’ tell you?”

That got a reaction out of the older Winchester.  His head whipped around to stare at Sammy with wide eyes.

Son of a bitch.  Should have known he wouldn’t forget.

Sam took his shocked expression as confession.  With a look surpassing anger and approaching terrifyingly blank, he spat out, “You talk in your sleep.”

His brother paled and he turned his head away, eyes sliding closed.  When he chanced a glance back, Sam didn’t know what to make of the expression there.  Pain, for sure, which fueled his anger. 

If Dean was in this much trouble, Sam needed to know, damn it.  Why was it his brother couldn’t just trust him?             

“Wh-” Dean cleared his throat.  “What did I say?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed as his anger hit a boiling point and his forehead smoothed out in a blank expression.  Unbelievable.  Caught red-handed, his brother still wasn’t going to come clean.  He knew how Dean worked – knew the game of letting the person fill in the blanks so you could agree with them, making them think that you were the one filling in the blanks.  He was just about done being his brother’s con.

“You tell me.”

Dean searched his eyes before turning to the windshield.  “Cas isn’t… He’s not a problem, Sam.  He’s not even on the board.”

“But he will be, right?”  The younger hunter leaned forward.   “He’s coming?  Dean, what does he want with you?  Is he like the Yellow Eyed Demon?  Did he have something to do with Mom’s death?”

Green eyes locked back on his, once more wide in confusion and surprise.  “What?  No!  I told you, Sammy, he’s not a part of this.”

Sam laughed, but there was nothing remotely funny about this.  The noise was angry and incredulous, and so damn fed up.  He opened the passenger door.  “I’m so sick of you lying to me, man.  Do whatever you want; I’m going to go find Dad.” 

Sam climbed out of the Impala and Dean, cursing, followed suit.  This was way too similar to how it had gone down last time and, damn it, he thought he’d been doing it better.  He watched across the hood of the Impala as his brother stalked towards the Bus Depot

“Just keep your phone on you, alright?  I’ll catch up to you tomorrow.”

Sam spun around, backpack slung over his shoulder and arms held out in frustrated resignation.  “Right.  After you hunt whatever Cass tells you to hunt.”  The younger man shook his head, looking away as he bit at his tongue to keep from lashing out any further.  He finally looked back at his brother with hurting, angry eyes.  “I knew that gun was too good to be true.  What the hell did you do, Dean?  And what happens when you don’t do what he says?  Does he send demons after Jess?  After Dad?”

He turned his back on his older brother and stormed into the building.  Dean closed his eyes and slammed his fist down on the hood of the Impala.

-o-o-o-

He beat the steering wheel harder than Baby deserved as he pulled out his phone.  Damn it, why couldn’t things ever just go right.

“Dad?”  Dean swallowed heavily past the lump in his throat.  John hadn’t answered – he hadn’t expected him to – but just hearing the voicemail, hearing his voice that morning, was enough to hurt him somewhere deep where he was still a son whose mom had died tragically and whose dad was everything to him.  “It’s Dean.  I’m-  I’m heading to Indiana, but….damn it, I know you’re not okay.  Call me.  Sam’s on his way to you and we can help.”

He snapped the phone shut and threw it to the other side of the car harder than it deserved, too. 

-o-o-o-

Sam stared at the woman behind the glass with an expression bordering on rude.  “Five pm.  Seriously?  There isn’t any other bus that leaves earlier?”

“Unless you want to go to Miami, you can sit tight and wait just like everyone else.”

His jaw clenched at the bitchiness, but he supposed that would be how this day would go.  With an utterly unappreciative smile, Sam grabbed his bag and went off in search of a seat.  He apparently had quite the wait in front of him.

The crappy Depot didn’t even have wifi.  Lucky for him, the bar next door did, and it reached where he was sitting with enough reliability to get some research done.  There had to be some record somewhere of what color eyes Cassius Longinus had when he was alive.

-o-o-o-

He didn’t stop in town or bother looking around.  Dean drove straight through, the sight of the classic muscle car calling attention (and suspicion) from the townsfolk, but he didn’t care.  He’d be long gone before they even smelled the smoke.

The sooner he could meet up with Sam, the sooner he could tell him that Cas wasn’t a demon.  He didn’t know what he was going to tell him after he got that part out, but he figured he’d start there.

Remembering exactly where the sacred tree was in the orchard was a long shot, but he figured the direction his gut liked best would have to do.  He was pretty sure he’d recognize it when he saw it; they had the first time, after all.  Grabbing the full gallon of gas they always kept on hand and checking his jacket pocket for his trusty lighter, Dean closed the trunk and stalked off into the trees.

-o-o-o-

It was three hours into his wait when she walked in. 

She had short cropped hair and a cute punk look that, when coupled with the backpacking pack, completed the runaway persona.  Sam wasn’t really paying attention to who came and went in the Depot, and he wasn’t the type to stare at a girl either (he left that to Dean), but she made such a ruckus at the front desk that when she plopped down beside him, it was kind of hard to ignore.

“What kind of crap town only has three busses the whole damn day?”

The young hunter glanced over at her only to confirm that she was, in fact, talking to him.   She’d slung her bag in the seat next to her, sprawled across the plastic, and perched her leg atop the pack, swinging it back and forth distractedly.  He was temporarily at a loss of words, if only because he was mentally waist-deep in the personal writings of a 1st century Greek Philosopher who participated in the assignation of Julius Caesar and was close friends with one, Cassius.

“Uh….the kind of town that’s in nowhere, Illinois?”

She chuckle and started tapping her heel against her backpack as she surveyed the bus depot.  He gave it a moment more to see if she planned to interrupt him further, before going back to his computer.

“So where are you headed?”

Sam resisted the urge to sigh.  She was just being friendly.  Or…forward.  He wasn’t sure which.  But he gave her a harried smile and answered nonetheless, “California.”

“Oh.”  She looked off again, and Sam went back to his philosopher.  “That’s nice.  Beaches.  Surfing.”

He took a deep breath and decided he wasn’t getting anywhere anyway.  Closing his laptop, he gave his full attention to the woman in the leather jacket.  “Yeah.  I’m not really going for vacation.”

“Yeah?  Me neither.” 

Sam waited half a beat for her to continue.  He honestly couldn’t tell if she was just an idle talker with no focus, or if she was waiting for him to ask.

“Where are you going?”

The woman turned to him with a raised brow and he immediately got the impression he was on the wrong side of a joke.  “I’m not telling you.”  She smirked slightly, looking up at him through long eyelashes and thick kohl liner.  “You could be some sort of freak.”

He pulled his head back with a scoff.  “You asked me.”

“Yeah,” she answered with a shrug.  “But I’m trustworthy.” 

The wink she sent his way was doing its best to turn irritation into amusement.  “Ah, right,” he pursed his lips in a tight smile, “you’ve definitely got that vibe about you.”

She suddenly stood, all in one motion.  “You hungry?”

“Uh…” Sam looked around at the empty depot with its solo half-empty vending machine.  “For what?  Potato chips and Life Savers?”

“I saw a bar on my way in.”  She picked up her backpack, heaving it up on her shoulders once more.  “My bus doesn’t leave till five, and I’d rather pass the time with a beer.” 

Sam glanced at the bus schedule behind the ticket counter.  There really were only three busses that day, and only one leaving at five pm.

“You coming?”

She was smirking at him again, fully aware of what he was staring at.  He shook his head, putting his laptop into his bag and following after her.  “Yeah.  Definitely the trustworthy type.”

The woman just laughed as she pushed open the door.

-o-o-o-

The tree was burning steady within the hour.  Fugly stayed stuck up on his perch, and when Dean passed by it on the way back to the car, there was nothing left but a smoldering cross and a pile of ash.

Dean made it all the way to the next town before he stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

-o-o-o-

“I’m Meg, by the way.”  They had a good sprawl of beers and nachos and chips and salsa.  Not Sam’s usual fair, but Meg spared no expense when she was craving bar food.  And come on, everybody loved nachos.

“Sam.”  He took a sip of his beer, taking it a little easier than she was, on her forth already. 

“Sam, huh?  So, Sam, what are you running away from?” 

He gave her a look that was starting to feel pretty permanent on his face.  It was something between irritation and amusement, which was usually reserved only for Dean or sometimes Jess when she was in a particularly playful mood. 

The youngest Winchester didn’t really enjoy being on the tail end of the joke.  “Who says I’m running from anything?”

The blonde rolled her eyes at him, the grin ever present in her those big doe eyes.  “Please.  You have the lost groupie look down even better than me.”  She leaned in conspiratorially.  “And I have a leather jacket.”

He laughed around the neck of his beer, managing not to choke on a mouthful.  “I’m not running.  There’s just something I have to find.”

“And it’s in California?”

Sam shrugged, looking down at the label on his drink.  “It was.  Who knows by the time I get there.”

She was sympathetically quiet for a moment, possible lamenting her own grievances at the Illinois Greyhound company and its sad excuse of a bus schedule.  “Is this a something, or a someone?”

He gave her a grim smile.  “It’s my dad.”

Her eyes widened and she reached over to set her hand on his arm, only to think better of it at the last moment.  He was grateful for the aborted move, but could appreciate the attempted sentiment.  “Is he in trouble?”

Sam thought about the way John’s voice had sounded on the phone.  He’d sounded so damn tired.  Dead on his feet.  And Sam had only ever heard him like that when he came back from the really bad hunts. 

“I think so, but he wouldn’t tell me.  So I’m going to go to find him.”

He looked up from his beer to find her staring at him.  Her eyes were so intense that he fought the urge to fidget under the contemplative stare.  “California’s kind of a big place.  You know where he is?”

“I’ve got an area code.  I’ll start there.”   He cleared his throat and opted for a change of topic, unsure why she was making him uncomfortable.  “How about you?  What are you ‘running’ from?”

Meg heaved a sigh and launched into a tale of controlling parents with dreams for their child.  Dreams their child didn’t particularly want.  Sam could relate – he’d been in the same exact place four years ago.  Sitting in a bus stop with everything he owned in a bag, waiting for the ride that would take him away to college, away from a family that wanted everything he didn’t.

She stared at him somewhat expectantly at the end of her story, but he wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say.  “I’ve been there.  It used to be the same for me.”

“Yeah?”  Meg blinked those almond eyes at him.  “But not anymore?”

He gave a soft smile, picking at the edge of the beer label.  “Not for a while.  I left my family for school, and, uh, didn’t turn back.”

She tilted her head.  “Only you’re running back to them now.”

Sam set the empty bottle down on the table.  “Yeah.  Well….they’re my family.”

Meg kept watching him with intense eyes he didn’t fully understand.

-o-o-o-

Dean called Sam once he was safely back on the interstate.

“Yeah, piece of cake.  I’m on my way back now.  Where are you?”  He turned up the volume dial on the stereo and tapped his head to the classic music.  “You’re still at the depot?  Jesus, Sammy, I figured you’d be halfway to the coast by now.”

His brother bitched at him down the line and he grinned.  “Yeah, yeah, sounds like excuses to me.  I’ll be there in a couple hours and you can ride in true style to California.”

He could practically hear Sammy rolling his eyes.   But then he was asking if he’d figured out what type of pagan the scarecrow had been and Dean’s mind ground to a halt, mouth poised open, but lips frozen in an ‘o’ shape. 

Son of a bitch, what was the thing called?”

“Uh, yeah.  Course.  Something with a V.  Varin.  Verif.  It was Norse, I couldn’t pronounce it.”

Sammy’s less than enthusiastic answer left him feeling like he’d once again lied to his brother’s face and been caught right in the act. 

-o-o-o-

Sam lowered his phone with something between a growl and a sigh.  Damn it, when was this going to stop?  Because, to be honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep traveling with his brother if the lies didn’t stop.

“Everything okay?”

He sat back down across the floor from his new runaway friend.  They were camped out in the bus station once more by the far wall of chairs, a card game stretched between them that he had stepped away from when his phone rang.  They had two hours left to go, but at this point Dean would be back to pick him up before the bus left.  And Dean would drive way faster anyway.

“Just my brother.”

Meg raised her eyebrows at him over the top of her hand as she drew a card.  “He hear anything from your dad?”

Sam shook his head, looking down at the phone in his hand before tucking it back into his bag and picking up his abandoned cards.  Meg discarded the four of Diamonds and he picked it up to slide into his hand.  “No.  He called about something else.  But he’s on his way here.”

The woman shifted, uncrossing one leg to tuck the other instead.  Sam didn’t pick up on the subtle change of body language, mind focused on his brother.  “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

The hunter sighed, discarding a Queen of Spades and putting his hand back down.  He didn’t feel much like games right now.  “Have you ever known someone who just, one day, became a totally different person?”

Meg straightened up a little, those full eyes regarding him with her complete attention.  “What do you mean?”

“It’s just…” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “I’ve known my brother my whole life.  The guy practically raised me.  And suddenly, one night he isn’t…him anymore.  It’s still him – same stupid movie references and bad jokes and martyr complex.  But….  I don’t know.  He’s just….heavier.  Keeping secrets.”

She watched him for a moment after he trailed off, no longer sure how to put into words what was going through his head.  She picked up the Queen of Spades and slid it into her hand.  “Sounds like he got some bad news.”

Sam blew out a puff of air and picked his cards back up.  “Yeah, from who?”

-o-o-o-

They gave up cards after Meg mopped the floor with him four to one.  She complimented his half-assed attempt, and he laughed off the sarcasm.  Yeah, his head hadn’t really been in it.  Though the woman had a hell of a poker face.

Sam rubbed at his forehead, the beginnings of a headache banging against his skull.  He was ready to be out of this bus depot, even if his escape was an equally cramped car with his cagey brother.

His phone rang at ten to five, and he glanced down at Dean’s name across the screen.  “Hey.  Yeah, I’ll be right out.” 

He stood from the hard plastic chair, scooping up his bag.  His headache spiked with the sudden movement but he pushed through it.  Meg was watching him with those intense eyes of hers and he chuckled when she didn’t move from her sprawled position over the seat and her bag.

“You could come with me,” he offered as he slung his duffle strap over his body.  “Dean won’t mind.”

“I’m not getting in a car with your brother.”  She smirked up at him, once more through those long eyelashes.  “He could be some kind of freak.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head at her.  “Good luck with your parents and your trip.”

She smiled, and he realized the woman was never not smirking.  “You too.  Hope you find your dad.”

His smile was grim but appreciative.  He turned for the depot entrance and stumbled as the pain in his head flared.

“Sam?”

Shaking his head, he tried to wave Meg off, but then he was on the floor, his head pounding between his hands like a pick ax working on a nail.  He gasped as his vision flickered between flashes of white and empty black.

He could still hear Meg calling his name, her arms wrapped around his shoulders.  He could hear someone yelling for help.  But through all of that, he wasn’t in the bus station anymore. 

It was dark all around him, but he could tell the space was huge by the way the silence echoed.  A flash of white had him gasping, and his dad was standing in front of him, his back turned but paused mid step, as though about to look over his shoulder to his son.  He seemed somehow far away.  Unreachable.

“Dad?”

John’s head moved to the side, but he wasn’t looking at Sam.   The youngest Winchester followed his father’s gaze through the throbbing in his skull. 

There, in the dark, so deep in the black haze that he could barely make it out, was a pair of eyes.  Cold, piercing, so dark amber they seemed inflamed.  Inhuman.  Sam took a shaky step back as something moved forward in the inky darkness.  Something heavy slid across the floor, tensing in preparation for the pounce, and those eyes never blinked, locked on John Winchester.

“Run, Sammy.”

The young hunter turned back at the sound of his dad’s voice.  John Winchester was facing him, arms held out to the side.  Sam caught tired – exhausted – eyes pleading for him to get away.  There was movement to his left and he tensed, prepared to push his dad out of the way, to do something before the thing attacked.

He was back in the bus depot as suddenly as he had left it.

“Sam!”  Meg was holding him upright, pretty much the only reason he wasn’t face first on the filthy tile floor.  “Get an ambulance!”

“No,” he mumbled, struggling to find his muscles on this plane of existence once more as he tried to push himself off the floor.  It wasn’t graceful, but he managed.  “I’m okay.”

“Sam, you went catatonic,” Meg argued, looking up at him as he managed to stand, only slightly listing to the side as his head began to clear.  “You had some kind of fit.”

“I’m alright,” he repeated, rubbing at his forehead.  “I get these, uh, fainting spells.  But I’m okay.”

Meg climbed to her feet as the small crowd that had gathered began to disperse as he insisted he was fine, that he didn’t need medical assistance.   His bus buddy looked less then sure, as if she might need to catch him at any moment should he swoon like a damsel again.

“I’m really okay,” he hissed through the last spike of pain, but grabbed his bag once more.  He needed to tell Dean what he saw.  Dad was in trouble.   “I should get out to my brother.”

“What you should get to is a hospital.”

He shrugged off her concern.  “It happens all the time.  Really, I’m alright.  You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

Meg eyed him with worry and no subtle about of skepticism, and he glanced at the front doors.  Dean was probably wondering what was taking him so long. 

“Think I’ll stick with the bus.”

He shook his head again, still somehow amused at this woman, before realizing what a bad move that was as he swayed in the sudden lack of balance.  She moved to steady him, but the hunter waved her off.  “Alright, well, good luck.”  

He was halfway out the doors when he heard her answer from behind.

“See you around, Sam.”

-o-o-o

Dean pushed the passenger door open for his brother as the kid jogged over to the Impala.  He was rubbing his head.

“Dude, what took so long?  You stop for pie?”  Sam slid into the car with a wince and Dean waited stared expectantly.  “No, seriously, you got pie?  I’m starving.”

“Shut up, Dean,” his brother answered with equal parts exasperated affection and pained annoyance.  “I had a vision.”

Pie, and all food, was suddenly the furthest thing from Dean Winchester’s mind.

-o-o-o-

Meg waited until the Impala pulled out of the bus depot before she went outside, watching the sleek muscle car disappear down the road, headed west.  She flagged down the first car to pass by – a shady guy in a white van that had seen better days.

That would do.

The guy grinned nervously at her, failing to hide all manner of sin behind his smile.  “Looking to go somewhere, pretty lady?”

“Just need a ride.”  She smiled at him, even as she pulled open the driver door.  He looked confused for all of a second before he was on the ground, nursing an aching arm as he stared up at the crazy chick climbing into his van. 

“Hey!”  He struggled to sit back up, clutching at his shoulder where he’d landed harshly on the concrete.  The woman paused with one leg on the cab step before she turned back to him.  The driver shrank back on himself, the look in her eye telling him he’d made a terrible mistake.

“I have to make a call,” she said as if it was some sort of explanation, jumping back down and slinging her pack off her back. 

“I-I…uh…I have a cell phone.”

She smiled sweetly at him, even as she pulled a silver chalice from her bag.  “It’s not that kind of call.”

In a single, deadly swipe that he never saw coming, she slit his throat and held the goblet to collect his spilling blood. 

The driver was dead before she finished.

“Thanks for the ride.”  Meg climbed into the van, balancing the goblet of liquid carefully, and headed down the road after the Winchesters.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 14

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The car flew past fields and telephone posts as the sun began to set on Midwestern USA.  Sam had a pad of paper in his lap and was sketching near fanatically with a pen they had likely stolen from a motel somewhere along the line.  Dean was starting to get annoyed with his brother’s lack of attention to his questions of fair incredulity.

“Tell it to me again, cuz you’re not making any sense.”

“It was a vision, Dean.”

“Yeah, I got that part, Professor X.  I mean the part where you know the thing that’s after dad.”

His younger brother rubbed at his forehead, annoyed.  The headache was still eating away at the inside of his skull, despite the couple of aspirin he popped as soon as he got in the car.  “I don’t know what it is.  I just….recognized its eyes.”

Dean frowned over at him before refocusing on the road.  “Like you’ve seen it before?”

“No.”  Sam shook his head and stared past aching eyeballs at the sketch in front of him.  It wasn’t great; he was no artist, but he was sure he’d seen that gaze before.  “Not the monster, just the eyes.”

“Uh-huh.”  Dean sounded so skeptical that Sam’s indignation flared without his consent, and he found himself a hell of a lot angrier than his brother’s usual cavalier attitude called for.  But Dean caught the look sent his way and had the decency to at least look sheepish.  He cleared his throat.  “So what else did you see?”

Sam clenched his jaw, but answered all the same as he tucked the sketchbook against the door and rummaged through the bag at his feet for his laptop.  “It was dark, and the space was big.  Really big.  Like a cave.”

Dean had to bite his tongue.  Hard.  “So…Dad’s in a cave.  He went from Sacramento, California to the world’s largest cave?”

Sam’s bitchface bordered on the more dangerous end of the Official Bitchface Scale, and Dean told himself to bite harder next time.

“Okay.  We’ll start looking for caves.”

Sam wasn’t anything close to appeased, but he didn’t argue it any further.  Instead, he opened his laptop, determined to prove to his brother that he did recognize those eyes and his vision could lead them to Dad.  He knew it could.

-o-o-o-

“Do you remember that zoo we went to in Arkansas?”

Dean glanced over with raised eyebrows, but it was a short-lived look overrun by the smile that spread across his face at the memory.  Yeah, he remembered that trip.  They’d blown all three weeks of food and hotel allowance John had left them, but it had been worth it.  He’d never seen Sammy so excited about anything.

“Man, your face when you saw the giraffes.”  He laughed, chest tightening with warmth at the memory.  “Makes sense, given you’re a cousin of theirs.”

“Shut up,” Sam rolled his eyes, but it was good natured.

“So what about it?”

The younger Winchester stared at his computer screen displaying the Little Rock Zoo website as he scrolled through their collection of animals.  “I know I’ve seen those eyes before, and I keep thinking back to that trip.”

Dean gave a cursory glance at the computer, trying to keep the skepticism out of his gaze, and left his brother to it.

-o-o-o-

The older Winchester let more miles pass than he should have before he finally opened his mouth to talk to his brother.  Except, he had no idea what to say, and every line that popped into his head made him instantly want to retract his tongue like a tortoise in a shell.  He glanced at his brother.  Sam was busy typing away, digging into whatever this new vision of his had shown them.

It was a perfect opportunity to let the whole Cas thing go.

Knee-deep in a new lead on Dad, Sammy wasn’t likely to remember their last argument for some time, or bring it up again until after they’d found John.  It was the perfect time to just drop it.

The older Winchester’s knee bounced up and down in a beat of anxiety and he glanced at his brother again.  He shouldn’t let it go, he knew that.  Hell, he’d had enough hands on experience letting shit slide that shouldn’t be slid to know how often it came back to trample his ass in a landslide of ‘told you so.’

But he still had no clue what to tell his brother. 

Cas isn’t a demon. 

But what was he?  It wasn’t like he could come out and tell Sam about angels.  Right?  The idea of letting Sam think Cas was a demon didn’t sit right in his chest, though.  Sure, the guy was barely an angel anymore, but he knew how Cas would feel letting the younger Winchester think he was evil. 

Not that his Cas would ever know, but that still rang a little too close to home for all of them.

I didn’t make a deal.

But what had he done?  Time travel was definitely off the conversational table.  That wasn’t something you just tossed out there.  Sammy already thought he was lying enough as is; he didn’t need to add something truly unbelievable to the mix.

I’m still your brother.

Was he?  He certainly wasn’t the brother Sam knew.

The never-to-be Stanford lawyer was going to ask all the questions Dean didn’t have answers to and press buttons he didn’t know if he could tolerate being pushed.

They had other things to worry about.  He could bring it up another time.

So Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forced his leg to stop its nervous bouncing, and didn’t say a word.  Sam was too wrapped up in his search for amber eyes to notice.

-o-o-o-

“That’s it.”  Sam stared at his screen in surprise, hands on the sides to tilt it back so he could stare into the soft red-brown irises looking back at him.  “Those are the eyes I saw.”

His brother glanced over as he flipped the laptop around.  Dean immediately switched his gaze to his brother’s face, disbelief painting his own.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The look Sam sent him told him he wasn’t, and he glanced back at the screen again.

“So…a rhinoceros is hunting dad?”  Dean looked away from the image of an African White Rhino, specifically a close-up photo of its eye.  He gave a half shrug, which was only seventy-five percent sarcastic.  “Well, it’s got a certain irony to it, I’ll give you that.”

“Dean, I’m serious.”  Sam furled his brow, angry at the brush off, and turned the computer back around.  “It wasn’t a rhino.  It just had those eyes.”

His brother, wisely, said nothing.  Although he did let out a rather skeptical hum.  Lucky for him, Sam was busy staring at the image of the rhinoceros, mind desperately trying to re-pierce the darkness of his vision for the beast that lay beyond.

“They were angrier and there….there wasn’t a horn.”  He closed his eyes to better recall the images he’d seen, disjointed and confusing as they had been.  His head spiked with pain and he grimaced, but pushed through.  “Maybe…tusks?” 

“Awesome,” Dean said, sounding anything but.  “A Rhino-Mammoth.  And it’s after dad.”

Sam clenched his jaw against his brother’s flippancy and went back to his search for creatures fitting that description, no matter what his ass of an older brother thought.

-o-o-o-

They arrived at the location of the payphone – outside a warehouse north of the city – late on the third morning after John had called.  The brothers stood around the empty booth, Dean leaning against the side of the Impala as Sam investigated the interior.

“What now?”

The younger Winchester looked over at his shoulder, loss, disappointment, and worry warring on his face.  “I don’t know.”

Dean frowned, uncrossing his arms as he pushed off the car.  “What, did you think he was just gonna be hanging out in the phone booth?”

He hadn’t meant it to sound cold or accusing.  Honestly, he was just surprised that Always-Have-A-Backup-Backup-Plan-Sam didn’t have a friggin’ backup plan. 

His brother still sent him a dirty, slightly hurt look.  Sam didn’t want to admit that he’d half expected they’d find their Dad’s body there. Instead, he shrugged defensively as he stepped out of the booth and looked around the relatively empty Californian street.  “We treat it like a case.  Knock on doors, ask around.  Someone had to see where he went.”

Dean watched him for a moment, weighing their options and where his brother’s head was at, before conceding with a nod.  “Alright, we’ll start with the gas station across the street.” 

Although it looked pretty deserted with not a ton of traffic driving through his part of town, Dean started that way and his brother fell in to step worriedly beside him.  He spared him a glance, before hardening his own resolve, if only for the sake of his family.  “We’ll find him, Sammy.”

Despite the olive branch, the younger Winchester answered back, “It’s Sam.”

-o-o-o-

They didn’t find him.  They ran down every lead they could, but it looked like John Winchester did nothing more in Sacramento than stop to make a phone call.  And that was more than possible; it was likely, even.  The man was a highly trained marine followed up by twenty-two years of hunting paranoia.  He knew how to disappear, he knew how to not be found, and he knew how to stay that way for months.

They were as good as screwed.

-o-o-o-

The two stopped in a diner on the outskirts of Sacramento that evening, Dean practically dragging his little brother in by the arm for all his whining and bitching about not stopping until they found Dad.  But Dean already knew they wouldn’t find him, and not just because of future knowledge.  He knew the man better than anyone, and if he didn’t want to be found then there would be no finding him.  At least, not without help.

“Look,” he started, trying to punch down his own irritation at his increasingly snippy brother, “we need to regroup.” 

“Dad doesn’t have time for us to ‘regroup’, Dean.  He’s being hunted!”

The older of the two pushed on, despite the fierce bitchface and fisting grip on the tabletop that his brother presented him with. “We’re no good to him if we can’t find him, Sammy.  And we’re not finding him here!  Let’s head to Bobby’s.  Maybe he has some ideas, a tracking spell, something we can use.”

Sam didn’t look nearly assuaged, but he sat back in the booth and stopped arguing.  Dean let out a ragged sigh, running a hand through his hair.  Their waitress popped up shortly afterward, chipper smile oblivious to the tension between the two.

“I’m Christie, I’ll be getting you two anything you need today.”  She sent a wink Sam’s direction, and the sasquatch put at least some effort into smiling back.  It wasn’t like his missing, injured Dad or unyielding, uncooperative older brother was her fault.  “Can I get you started with something to drink?  Our lemonade is sublime if you’re looking for something sweet.”

Dean tuned the girl out, not interested in the potential jailbait like he may have once been.  Instead, he placed a quick order somewhat coldly (getting a disparaging look from the bubbly waitress) and waited for her to leave before trying once more to reach his brother.

“We’ll find him, Sam, alright?  I’m not giving up.  But you know the man as much as I do – if he’s gone to ground, we aren’t finding him.  At least not with neighborhood canvasing and phony FBI badges.”

Sam spared him a glance and offered a half shrug.  Not acquiescence, more like pouting actually, but at least it had a lot less snippiness than the last couple of hours.  The older of the two gave himself a minute of reprieve, staring out the window of the diner.  He watched cars come and go in the parking lot with disinterest as he steeled himself for continuing the conversation with his irate brother.  After a mini pep-talk, he told himself to man up and turned back to Sam.

“This thing, the monster with the Rhino eyes,” Dean went for a change in topics as his newest peace offering, “maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Yellow-Eyes.  Demons don’t usually tangle with the other shit that goes bump in the night.  So maybe it’s a normal hunt gone bad.”   

Sam straightened a little, the strong set of his shoulders changing from anger and tension to possibility.  “If that’s it, then we should be looking at cases in the area.”

“Nah, if Dad’s on the run, we can’t limit the search to just here.  We should check further out.”

His younger brother nodded, already pulling out his phone and typing away.  “I’ll look for news down the whole coast.” 

Christie stopped to drop off Sam’s water with a friendly smile and Dean’s coffee with a scowl.

Sam had just pulled up the local news for states west of California when he glanced up to say something to Dean and stopped.  The doorbell above the diner chimed with the entrance of a new customer, and Sam froze as Meg Masters walked in.

“No way,” he muttered, staring in surprise as the woman looked around the shop for a moment before spotting him.  She waved with a grin and headed their way. 

Dean, noticing his brother’s stare, glanced over his shoulder and immediately stiffened.  Son of a bitch.  When the hell did Meg 1.0 join the playing field? With a sharp swear, he spun back around and Sam saw his hand go for the gun tucked in his waistband. 

“We need to get out of here, now,” Dean hissed, casting a quick glance around even as he made for the edge of the booth.

“Now, now, no need to run off just yet, boys.”  Meg slid into Sam’s booth before the younger of the two could climb out.  Her body language was relaxed, like an old friend meeting up for a light lunch.  But her eyes and her frozen smile dared the two to make a scene.

The cocking of a gun beneath the table didn’t even phase her.

“Dean,” she tsk’ed with a tilt of her head and pouty lips, “Is that any way to treat a lady?”

The hunter responded with more of a grimace than anything and held the gun steady.  Sam glanced between the two, having pushed himself as far into the booth as possible and away from the woman he had met just yesterday and was suddenly very sure was not human.  She spared him a quick glance, winking a very black eye at him. 

He pushed further away from her and spared Dean a look.  His brother minutely shook his head. 

“So.  Sam, Dean.  We need to talk.”

“I really don’t think we do.”

She clucked her tongue at the older Winchester and opened her mouth to say more when Christie came back by with a wide smile at the new guest.  Sam tried to dissuade her, shaking his head, but she either didn’t notice, or didn’t get the message.

“Hello, there!  Can I grab you something?  The boys just placed their orders, but I can get a rush job into the kitchen if you’d like.”

Meg smiled sickly sweet up at the woman.  “That is just so….sweet of you.  How about you join us instead, hm?”

Christie’s eyes widened in confusion as her body stiffened and she found herself all but slamming into the booth next to Dean.  Her throat seized up as she tried to speak, tried to move, and she glanced, frightened, at the other men at the table. 

Dean sat stiff and rigid, jaw clenched.  This was not good.

Meg continued their conversation like they were speaking about the weather wit not so much as an interruption.  “We want to know where you’re getting your information, Dean.”  Her head tilted to the side once more, a gesture that might have been cute in Meg Master’s body, but certainly lost its appeal when matched with those dangerous eyes.

“The Enquirer,” Dean snarked right back, face deadpan serious.  “Demons and their Bitches, right next to Housing and Décor.”

She dropped the smile.  Beside him, the waitress made a hiccupping noise and her hand twitched towards her neck.  A wide-eyed Dean spared her a worried glance, but immediately refocused on Meg, not trusting that bitch for a second.  Sam moved to help, but a wave of Meg’s hand and he found himself pressed back against the wall of the booth.  Dean’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move otherwise.

“Very funny.  Let’s try again, shall we?”

Christie was crying now, her face turning red and her eyes beginning to bulge in panic.

“Stop!” Sam barked and Meg turned her head sharply to him.  “Stop.  We’ll tell you, just let her go.”

The demon loosened her grip on the poor waitress’s neck and the girl gasped for breath, tears streaking down her face and a freak-out held at bay only by demonic influence.  It was a damn good thing they had chosen a booth near the back out of habit.  Not that it mattered, much more and Meg would draw the attention of another half dozen hostages.

“His name is Cass.”

“Sam!”

Nothing in the older hunter’s face changed to give away his sudden anxiety and tension as he barked his brother’s name in warning.  Ten years from now Sam could read Dean like a large print book mostly filled with pictures, under a friggin’ magnifying glass.  But twenty-two year old Sam had been out of the game for four years, and worse, didn’t know what was coming.

He trusted his brother, he did.  The kid was smart.  But Dean gritted his teeth hoping that wasn’t a bad call.  Because Meg couldn’t know about Cas.  Hell couldn’t know about Cas.  Not yet.

Meg was watching the younger of the Winchesters with a sharp, icy smile.  “You’ll have to do better than that, Sammy.”

Christine choked on her sobs as her throat tightened once more.

Sam raised his hands in placation even as he shook his head.  “That’s all we know, I swear.  He’s been talking to Dean: Giving him visions, telling him what to do.”  He chanced a glance at his brother, whose eyes never left Meg’s but whose insides loosened at the falsity.   He should have known better – Sam always had been a hell of an actor, even as a kid.  “We don’t know who – or what – he is.”

Meg turned black eyes on Dean and beside him the waitress whimpered.  “Is that true, Dean?”

Through gritted teeth, the hunter replied, “You calling my brother a liar?”

The demon rolled her eyes.  “I am if he expects me to believe a couple of hunters just decided to listen to the little voice that popped up in their head one day.” 

Her gaze promised pain for the civilian suffering beside them and Dean clenched his jaw hard enough to make it creak.  “He didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Meg snapped her head to the side, intense eyes regarding the older hunter.  “Interesting.  So you’re just a pawn.”

Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger, but the demon scoffed and gave him a look that called his bluff.  Feeling the need to remind him that lives were at stake, Meg watched Dean Winchester intensely as the little thing beside him hiccupped through another terrifying throat squeeze.

She could see the rage and the hatred in the hunter’s eyes, and she wondered where his little helper was now.    

“Why don’t you ask your boss, the Yellow Eyed Demon?” Sam cut in and she turned back to face his irate expression.  “He sent you, didn’t he?  Why don’t you interrogate him about the thing using my brother.”

Meg smiled sweetly at his ignorance, but declined to respond. Instead, she turned her head sharply to Dean and Christie let out a hiccup as the demon’s power tightened around her throat once more.

“Where’s John?”

“We don’t know,” Dean supplied immediately, perhaps a little too quickly for the demon’s taste if the sound Christie made was anything to go by.  “He wasn’t here when we got here.”

Meg gave him a look that clearly expressed her skepticism.  Beside her, Sam stressed, “He wasn’t.”

The demon shifted slightly, crossing her arms on the tabletop almost methodically as she regarded the two boys.  “Alright, then, here’s how this is going down.” 

She reached over and Sam immediately drew back to press himself against the wall once more.  Meg smiled lewdly up at him through those thick lashes as she slipped her hand into his front pocket.  He made a grab for her wrist, but quickly found his arms pinned back to his sides.  With a leer and a lot more wiggling than necessary, Meg withdrew his phone with a clicking of her tongue and Sam wanted to throw up.

Honestly, he was sort of surprised Dean hadn’t shot her, useless as it would be or not.  He was glad for his brother’s restraint, which looked to be in ever dwindling supply if his purpling face and jumping neck veins were any indication.

Meg sent his phone careening across the counter and Dean slammed his free hand down atop it to keep the device from sliding into his lap.

“You’re going to call dear Daddy, and make him tell you where he is.”

Dean leaned forward and slid the phone back.  Meg caught it, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t think so,” the older Winchester sneered with the sort of confidence born from being one of the best hunters on the planet. 

All mirth, however humorless and cold it had been, disappeared from the demon’s face.  “Well.  That just sucks for little Mary Sue here.”

All sounds cut from the poor waitress, whose eyes went wide as he opened and closed her mouth uselessly.  Nothing, not sound or air or panic, was getting in or out.  She looked desperately at the other two as tears streamed down her reddening cheeks.

Dean, refusing to so much as look at the civilian which could very well blow his play sky-high, leaned forward and regarded the demon with equally dangerous seriousness.  “See, you can kill every person in this diner, but at the end of the day you’ll still be dead.  And since killing demons is part of the job description, I’m going to call that a win.”

He tapped the barrel of the gun against the bottom of the table, and Meg’s eyes darted down, the first strands of uncertainty filtering through her eyes.

“You’re not seriously stupid enough to walk in here knowing I’ve got the Colt, are you?”

Meg regarded him with slivered eyes.  Christie was starting to go dangerously purple, surpassing panic, but those at the table were paying her little attention.  The humans couldn’t afford to, and the demon had already forgotten her existence other than a means to an end.

“You’re bluffing,” she finally concluded, though her gaze did not lighten with the assuredness that filled her voice.  “You wouldn’t bring it here, where you can’t keep it safe.”

Dean shrugged a shoulder.  “Probably wouldn’t have,” he conceded, “if you hadn’t been following us since the bus station.”

Meg sneered, physically rolling her eyes as she leaned back in the seat.  “Bullshit.  You didn’t spot me.”

“White van, Nebraska license plates.  Want the number?”  Dean’s gaze was ice cold, and Sam glanced at him, barely managing to hide his own surprise.  His brother hadn’t said a word.  Then again, this frigid, hard-edged man across the booth from him was hardly his brother.

Meg paled, and her eyes darted to the tabletop once more.  It was obvious she wanted more than anything to check under the table, but Dean made it pretty clear the first thing he’d do if she moved was shoot her.

The hunter made a sudden aborted movement forward, and the demon smoked out of Meg Master’s faster than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.

Christie started screaming.

The older hunter swore as he pushed her out of the booth rather roughly.  She stumbled, managing to catch herself on one of the counter booths a few feet away.  But by then they had the attention of the entire diner.  Christie was hysterical, as she had every right to be, and the civilians of Sacramento, good people that they were, came to her aid.  One of the patrons was yelling, another had her phone out and was clearly calling the cops.  The cook was rounding the corner with a meat-cleaver in hand.

“Grab her!” Dean hissed at his brother with a frantic head gesture at the ailing Meg Masters, even as he clawed his way out of the booth.  Sam, who had been justifiably taking a moment to gather himself, pushed at the stunned, confused woman even as Dean pulled at her from the other side.

The human that was Meg Masters was almost boneless, having not had control of her own body for weeks.  As soon as she was out of the booth, supported by his brother, Sam was following and all but scooped her up and into his arms.

Dean rounded his gun on the approaching chef and Sam blinked at the .45 caliber, ivory inlaid weapon that was definitely not the Colt. 

Son of a bitch, and that wasn’t even his line.

The two booked it out of the diner, Dean holding anyone who tried to stop them at gunpoint, as they essentially kidnapped the stunned Meg Masters and hauled ass out of Sacramento. 

-o-o-o-

When Sam asked him why he hadn’t actually brought the Colt in if he knew they were being followed (and the sarcastic, ‘Thanks for the heads up on that by the way’ had paired well with one of the more pissy bitchfaces), the older Winchester had to admit his bluff.  He’d seen the van pull into the parking lot a few minutes before Meg had shown up.  Sure, he’d immediately recognized the state plates from force of habit and years on the road, but she had parked out of view from the window bordering their booth.

And it wasn’t like he’d actually be paying it enough attention to memorize the license plate.  If Meg had called his bluff, things would have ended very, very differently for them.

Luckily, time and time again proved that demons were self-preservationists first and evil second.

-o-o-o-

Dean kept glancing at the back seat, where a quiet post-possession Meg was still processing what was going on.  They were on their way to the hospital, only a couple blocks away, to drop the girl off. 

He couldn’t believe she was alive.  They’d saved her this time around.  He would never have to look into the angry, aching eyes of her ghost as she blamed him for her death.

Sam was carefully drawing the anti-possession tattoo they would leave her with, because Meg was absolutely the type of demonic bitch to re-possess the same human, just for cruelty’s sake. 

They dropped her off at the emergency entrance with a yell for help, and apology for leaving, and a drawing clenched tightly in her shaking hand.

-o-o-o-

“We need to go back,” the younger Winchester announced before they’d even made it out of the county.  Dean was a tense mess, checking the review mirror for more than just cops.  “The girl could know something.”

“Sammy, come on.  She’s traumatized.  She’s going to be lucky to remember her own name after something like that.”  Dean rapped on the steering wheel as he guided the Impala to the highway.  Back roads would be safer, but they didn’t have time.  They honestly needed to get out of the state before the people in that diner could get the cops looking for them. 

He was going to have to change the plates on the Impala, just to be safe.

“She could have information on the Yellow-Eyed-Demon!” Sam argued.  “Meg was in her head, man.  She has to know something.”                                                                                                                      

Dean finally spared an incredulous look at his brother, who was usually the sympathetic, not to mention smarter, of the two.  “Sam.  Everyone in that diner thinks we just kidnapped a woman at gunpoint!  We’re gonna be lucky to get out of the state without being arrested!”

Sam grit his teeth hard enough that Dean could hear the creaking.  His brother knew he wasn’t wrong, but he could see it in Sam’s eyes: the desperation for information. 

He’d seen it before, after all.

“Look, I swear to you.  We will figure this out.  But right now, we need to get the hell out of here while we still can.”

Sam settled in his seat, seeing reason but completely unhappy about it.

-o-o-o-

They made the news that evening, even as far away as the boarder of Wyoming, where they stopped for the night.  The police had rough sketches of them, though luckily no cameras had been present in the diner.

The news caster seemed a bit baffled by the story, which was contradicted by eye witness accounts.  The majority of those present in the diner called it a kidnapping, but the waitress was labeled as an unreliable witness due to trauma, and the woman they had, in fact, kidnapped showed up at the hospital less than an hour later claiming they had actually saved her.

All in all, the police didn’t know what to make of it.  But official reports on the two were filed, though largely left blank, and tossed into a pile the Sacramento PD jokingly called ‘The Weird Ones’. 

It would be six months before those files, significantly thicker by then, would land on the desk of an FBI agent.

-o-o-o-

Sam waited until he was sure his older brother was asleep before quietly slipping from his bed and into the motel bathroom.  They were still half a day’s drive from Sioux Falls, but convincing Dean to call it for the night had been relatively easy.  Despite taking a fair share of the driving recently, Sam knew his brother didn’t like relinquishing the wheel, and he was pretty exhausted after the last few days. 

Reassured by the soft snores coming from Dean’s bed, Sam shut the door with a soft click.  He turned around to the sink and old mirror, yellowing along its edges.  Gripping the sides of the porcelain surface, he stared into his own reflection, looking for whatever it was that lay beneath the surface.

He knew he could find John.  He could almost taste the vision, the edges of it that had been shrouded in darkness, hidden from him.  He knew they were there, that the answers were just beyond what he could reach.  If only he could push it a little further.  If only he could see clearly, like Dean could.

Sam felt the first drops of blood drip from his nose, but he didn’t stop.  His gaze was lost to the darkness, to those cold amber eyes and John’s desperate plea for him to run.

He heard the distant plop of liquid falling in the sink.  Distantly, he knew when the drip become a flow.  Felt his fingers dig into the sink until his nails screamed.  Felt his head pound higher and higher, faster and deeper with every heaved breath he took in the dream.  Every inch of light he gained on the beast that was chasing his father.  He felt the burning in his legs and lungs as both gave out.

But he never felt the floor hit.

-o-o-o-

Dean woke to a thud.  He was upright and stumbling out of the bed before he registered what woke him.  But when he did, his first glance was to Sam’s empty mattress.

“Sam?”

Silence was the only answer, and he spun in the hotel room, now wide awake.  The bathroom door was closed, and a sliver of yellow light gave him some immediate relief.  The fact that the sliver only reached half the width of the door, blocked by something on the other side, lessened that relief significantly.

“Sam?”  He gave a quick rap on the wood and then tried to push it open.  Locked. 

Really, Sammy?

He gave the door a bodily shove with his shoulder.  The cheap lock gave almost immediately, but the wood bounced back heavily, blocked by something on the other side.  Something he was growing increasingly worried was his younger brother.

“Sam!”  He pushed on the door forcefully, grunting with the effort of moving his brother’s dead weight as he got the door cracked open just enough to slip into the bathroom.   “Shit, Sam!”

The younger hunter was lying unconscious on the tile, blood freely flowing from his nose and eyelids fluttering nonstop in a near seizure of movement beneath.  Landing hastily on his knees, Dean scooped his brother’s torso into his lap, cradling his head as he tapped at his cheek.

“Sam!”  He shook his brother, mindful of the injuries he couldn’t find.  “God damn it!”

The younger Winchester jerked with a groan, eyes finally opening and stilling their near crazed flickering.  The blood was still flowing as Dean pulled Sammy’s shirt up and pressed it to his nose in an attempt to staunch the flow. 

“D’n?”  Sam sounded exhausted, barely awake.  His hand flopped uselessly, trying to remove the thing over his face.  Dean pushed the appendage away, keeping the cotton pressed firmly to his brother’s nose.  Damn, the blood wasn’t slowing.

“What the hell did you do?”

Sam blinked hazily, hand once again making a half-assed, aborted move.  “T-tried to make ‘em str’ng’r.  Like yurs.”

Dean blinked harshly down at his brother, who was deteriorating fast.  Shit, whatever was happening, it wasn’t getting better.  “What?”

“V’zns,” Sam muttered, eyes rolling back in his head as he went limp in his brother’s arms.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 15

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean’s leg kept a constant beat against the sterile, vinyl flooring of the hospital waiting room.  It may have started as a Metallica song, but had deteriorated into nothing more than anxious tapping occasionally dipping back into something almost recognizable as Enter Sandman.

It had been three hours and fifty six minutes since they’d taken Sam away, after a frantic drive from the motel into the town of Evanston and the nearest emergency room. 

Dean was losing his mind.

Something was wrong with Sammy, something that hadn’t happened originally.  Which meant Dean had no guarantee he was going to be okay.  Because he had no idea what had happened, what had changed to cause it.  And that was on him.  Whatever changes were happening and the consequences of those differences, they were all on him. 

The crutch of knowing what came next, which fights they survived and others to avoid, was crippling now that it was gone.  Dean had come to rely too heavily on knowing when they were good and when to panic. 

But Sammy had to be fine.  He had to.  Heaven and Hell weren’t going to lose this race before it even got started.  It was hardly comforting, but Dean tried to find confidence in the bigger picture, something the Winchesters were famously crappy at.

The only thing he had to go on, as a doctor had yet to come and inform him of his brother’s condition, was that Sam had been having a vision.  It must have been one he hadn’t had the last time around, which meant it was probably about dad again.

Though the image of his brother on the floor, blood running down his nose, was only drawing parallels to a much darker, hungrier Sam.  A Sam that killed demons with his mind and took on Famine with blood smeared across his face like a feral grin.  A Sam that Dean would absolutely not let into existence this time.

So far, his efforts were going swimmingly.

The double doors to the waiting room swung open and a harried nurse and far too grim doctor emerged.  Dean was on his feet before they’d even called the fake name listed on his brother’s insurance.  The look on the doctor’s face was not encouraging. 

“We’ve stopped the bleeding, and your brother is stable for now.” 

Dean let out a breath he’d been holding since the motel bathroom and his brother’s growing puddle of blood. 

“There are still tests we need to run but…I’m afraid it’s not good, son.”

“What do you mean ‘not good’?” the older Winchester asked tightly, clenching his fists at his side to keep himself from throwing a punch at the guy who was only doing his job.  “What does that even mean?”

The doctor’s eyes crinkled in sympathy and Dean really did want to hit him.  It was the look that every person used when the outcome was inevitably death.  Dean shook his head, he wouldn’t accept that.  He wouldn’t.

“There was bleeding in his brain, and the damage is… extensive.” 

Cold flooded his body.  Not Sammy.  Not his genius kid brother who constantly amazed him with his utter nerdiness and brilliance.  Not his brother.  Brain damage wasn’t an option. 

“Right now there’s a lot of swelling and pressure, and we can’t find the cause.  You don’t usually see this kind of strain in someone so young.”

The nurse put her hand on Dean’s arm, and he realized he was shaking.

“There are still tests to run, as I said.”  The doctor sighed, and Dean knew what was coming, even if he denied it with every fiber of his being.  Even if Time and Fate themselves were telling him it shouldn’t be happening.  Wouldn’t happen.  Hadn’t happened.  Ergo, not happening.  “But damage that severe….I’m sorry, Mr. Burkovitz.  It’s not repairable.”

“What?”

“Your brother has a couple of weeks.  Maybe a month at best.”

“No.”  Dean blinked away the water filling his eyes.  He stumbled a step back, body numb even as he shook his head again.  “No.”

The doc was speaking but he wasn’t listening.  His brain held rational thought for all of about thirty seconds before Dean was slamming the doctor into the wall.  The nurse screamed for security even as the hunter shook the man by the lapels of his coat.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen!  Do you hear me?  You fix him!” The doctor, shocked, grabbed at his wrists, but the man from the future was running on adrenaline and borrowed time, and nothing was going to stop him from saving his brother.  Not this time around.  “You have to fix him!  This is not where my brother dies!”

Security arrived and pulled him away from the doctor.  Dean hit the floor on his knees, struggling to breath as all the oxygen and fight left his body and the last six months caught up to him.

-o-o-o-

The hospital staff was exceptionally reasonable about his outburst.  Apparently, he wasn’t the first.  According to the nurse, he’d hardly be the last.

He apologized to the doc in Dean Winchester style, which was not really apologizing at all.  But the man nodded and started going over Sam’s options once it was clear the hunter had regained his calm and was unlikely to attack him again.

They eventually left him in his brother’s hospital room, alone with an unconscious Sam and the steady beat of a weak heartbeat.  Dean sunk, lost, into the chair by his brother’s bedside.  The kid was hooked up to all sorts of wires and tubes, something Dean had seen more times than he’d ever be comfortable with.

But this time the kid was positively ashen, with dark circles under his eyes and a looseness to his skin that left him looking dead already.

Dean wanted to hit something again or cry.  And since the first would only end up with him permanently kicked out and the second wasn’t an option at all, he sat numbly in the chair and watched his kid brother sleep.

-o-o-o-

They kicked him out again in relatively short order to let Sam get some rest.  Dean spent the last of the early hours of morning packing up their hotel room and finding accommodation closer to the hospital in town.  Visiting hours didn’t begin until eight, so he spent the last two hours brainstorming and researching every possible way out of death the two had ever used or heard of.

A deal was out of the question, as all it would achieve was starting the apocalypse a resounding two years early.  Which was pretty much the dictionary-definition antonym of what Dean had come back from the future to do. 

Heaven was out too.  Any angel but Castiel would probably walk Dean straight to the nearest crossroads and hand deliver him into a deal.  Any angel sympathetic to his cause would likely fall in line as soon as a superior’s demanded it.  And fuck all if Zachariah or any of the archangels would get them out of this.

Dean had given Gabriel more than a moment’s thought when his mind stumbled over Michael, as briefly as he had.  But it had taken them almost a year to talk the celestial runaway onto their side, and even then it hadn’t been about saving humanity but his pagan friends.  Dean had no leverage to offer and nothing to convince Gabriel that it wasn’t time for the apocalypse yet.

So he let Loki go from his mind and focused on their other options.

Dean had already prayed his mental voice hoarse calling out to Castiel.  If the angel had made it back from the future with him (and after the last lake-side chat he honestly didn’t know anymore) then he wasn’t answering. 

The hunter tried not to blame him viciously for it in his panic-stricken grief.  If Cas was there and not answering, then the reason was he simply couldn’t.  Despite their tumultuous past, Dean knew that the angel come for Sam if he could.

Which left Present-Day Cas.  Dean had tried praying to that angel too, unsure of himself on what to even say as that version of his best friend wouldn’t know who he was.

If that angel got the stumbling, desperate prayer, he wasn’t answering either.

Dean didn’t bother holding back his anger at that version of Cas, cursing him out in his head.  So called angels, protectors of ‘God’s greatest creation’ his ass.  Couldn’t even spare a moment to heal the fucking savior of the planet. 

Of course, this timeline-Castiel may not be open to the idea of the Boy with the Demon Blood being a savior, or worth saving for that matter.

Bag of dicks, the lot of them.

So he moved on.  Heaven was out.  Hell wasn’t an option, at least not yet. (Never, he told himself.  But he knew it was a lie even before he thought it.)   Death was sealed up tight and would be forever more as long as Lucifer didn’t pop the box. That left the pagans and witchcraft. 

God, he hated witches.  They were just…so skeevy.

There were a couple of them he could think of that might have enough juice for the job and had the extra benefit of not making his skin completely crawl.  Rowena had the ability, for sure, but there was no way he was adding her to this clusterfuck.  She’d probably find a way to release Lucifer all on her own, while body-switching the brothers and locking Heaven’s doors up in one stupid ass spell that they would have to blackmail Crowley into conniving, killing, and kidnapping until it was reversed.

There was a long list of people he never wanted to see again in this timeline, and Rowena ranked pretty far up on that list.  Plus, he had no idea where she was in 2006, and it wasn’t like his brother had the time for a witch hunt.

So he wrote down the few other witches he thought might be up for the job, along with a couple medicine men they’d run into in the past. 

The pagans would be harder to work with, but more likely successful in the end goal.  Especially if he could find one of the ones that would protest the apocalypse in years to come.  If he could convince them that saving Sam would help stave off the End, he was more likely to gain their help (and be able to afford whatever payment they demanded in return).

He jotted down the couple he could recall from that hotel horror scene with Lucifer, and a few more off the top of his head that weren’t completely against humans in general.  Or had any sort of appetite for them.

Armed with a small list and a dozen calls to make, he headed to the hospital.

-o-o-o-

Sam was pretty weak.  He nodded along with all of Dean’s plans, but the hunter could see he wasn’t holding out much hope, and it irked him to his soul.

Unfortunately, calling him out on it only triggered a fight about Dean needing to let Sam go, which was absolutely not happening.  In turn, Sam’s stats sky-rocketed as the fight got vocal and the nurses had to shove Dean out the room to calm his ailing brother back down before he gave himself an aneurysm and kicked the bucket an extra couple of weeks early.

-o-o-o-

They had Sammy doped up pretty heavily the next time they allowed Dean in his room with the very stern warning that if he started anything again he would be banned from the hospital completely.  The hunter, while agitated and guilt-ridden, was sincere in his promise to be good.

Sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, Dean stared at his phone and the speed dial he’d almost called a dozen times while reaching out to other contacts.  Finally, he hit the number and pressed the phone to his ear.

Unsurprisingly, it was voicemail that picked up.

“Dad.”  Dean’s voice broke and he bowed his head as tears threatened once more.  He rubbed at his forehead, forcing words passed the sharp tightness in his throat.  “Dad, pick up.  I could- I could really use your help right now.”

He was barely holding it together as he left a message for his not-dead Dad, who was being hunted by who knows what, to tell him that his baby brother and the sole purpose John Winchester had ever instilled in his oldest son, was lying near death in a hospital bed.  And all of it was his fault. 

Why did he ever think he could change the future for the better?  Dean Winchester only ever made things worse.  Dean Winchester broke the world, over and over again, and never did better than duct tape and Band-Aids when it came time for cleanup. 

If he couldn’t fix his brother….  He already knew he’d break it all over again at the first crossroads he came to.

“Dad, please.  It’s Sammy, he’s….It’s bad.”  Green eyes slid closed as tears hit the tiles below as silence reigned down the line.  God damn it.  He hung his head, suddenly drowning in the despair that had been building for months now. “Why am I even bothering?”

He slid the phone down from his cheek and flipped it shut. 

-o-o-o-

The next time Sam woke, his older brother was asleep in the chair in the corner, tucked out of the way so nurses could come and go as they needed.  Dean’s eyes, though closed, were ringed red and puffy and his brother’s obvious pain and distress stabbed at the young hunter’s heart.  He continued to watch him groggily for a while, working the haze of the drugs out of his system. 

He was going to die, and soon. 

The doctors had talked to him the first time he woke, before they let Dean into the room.  They’d tossed some ideas around and offered a few meager platitudes of hope, but Sam could see in it in their eyes and hear it in their tones. 

There was nothing to be done.

Sam stared up at the ceiling tiles, blankly contemplating what would be the last few weeks of his life.  His head ached, like he’d gone a round with a baseball bat after a sinus infection.  All stuffed attic interiors and hot air balloons amid a buzzing drumbeat and the pulse of muscle cramps in his shoulders and neck. 

He’d pushed too far. 

And for what?  What had he gotten for his efforts?  For his life, as it turned out?  He still didn’t know where their dad was.  He just couldn’t see it like Dean did.

Sam turned his head to the side, neck muscles straining against the ache of illness and death.  His phone was lying among his other personal effects on the table beside his hospital bed.

Perhaps it hadn’t been completely worthless. 

It took a couple of tries to get his boneless, exhausted limbs to cooperate and his fingers to grip the smooth plastic, but eventually he got a good hold on his phone and brought it to his chest.

The simple move alone had been exhausting and he lay there panting.

He took a moment to breathe deep breaths and relax the tense, cramping muscles in his shoulders and the base of his neck.  When he was ready, he powered on his phone and pulled up the web application.

Sam could make the last of his life mean something.  He could make that much of a difference: give his brother and dad a fighting chance against the looming horizon.  Because he had seen something in his vision, something he’d seen the first time but couldn’t parse through the confusion and haze.

A beast hidden in the darkness, with the body of a lion, the head of an elephant, and the eyes of a rhinoceros.

-o-o-o-

“It’s a Baku.”

Dean was still shaking the sleep from his eyes when he looked up and realized Sam was awake.  More than awake, he was holding his phone out towards his older brother, an internet article pulled up.

The hunter surged up from his chair, rubbing the grit from his eyes as he crossed the hospital room to take the phone.  “What?”

“The thing hunting dad.  It’s a Baku.”  Sam sounded exhausted, but even as he blinked tired eyes, they were lit with determination and the last of the life he had to give.

That gaze broke Dean somewhere deep inside.

He read quickly through the words on his brother’s cell.  A creature of Japanese origin that ate nightmares and could be summoned to devour bad dreams.  Supposedly, it was made of leftover animal parts after the gods had finished with all other creatures.

Awesome.

“Some of them get greedy,” Sam whispered hoarsely, gesturing weakly at the article with his hand.  “They go after more than nightmares.  They start in on hopes and dreams.”

Dean glanced up from the phone with a raised brow, a question he didn’t need to voice.

“I saw it.  Lion’s body, tusks, trunk.  It makes sense, Dean.  It’s why dad sounded so tired.”  Sam struggled to sit up and his brother immediately went to assist him.  Once he was upright and leaning back against an abundance of pillows, Dean handed his phone back.  “He knows it’s hunting him in his sleep.”

Dean nodded, scratching at his short hair as his mind spun.  “Alright.  Alright, we’ll call him, leave him a message.”

“No.”  Sam gave him a look he couldn’t meet head on.  “He needs help.  You need to find him.”

“As soon as we get you fixed.”

“I’m not getting fixed, Dean!” 

A passing nurse stopped in the hallway to give the brothers a warning look.  Sam’s stats were still in the green, but could easily jump into yellow if they didn’t keep it down.  Dean gestured placating to his brother and the kid sunk back into the pillows.

“Even if I knew where Dad was, there is no way in hell I’d leave you here, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam, and I’m not your kid brother anymore!”

The sharpness in those words, the anger and bitterness in his tone cut the older of the two brothers to his core.

“Is that what this is about?”  He stared down at Sam in no shortage of shock and hurt.  How was it he could travel through time to a life he’d already lived, and yet still be surprised by his little brother? “Is that why you pushed until you damn near killed yourself?  Because I call you Sammy and act like your big brother?  Newsflash, I am your big brother!”

He grabbed the edge railing of his brother’s bed, holding Sam’s gaze with the fierce promise of his own.  “God damn it, Sam, you will always be my kid brother. Ten years from now or forty, if we somehow live that long, you will still be my snot-nosed little brother.”

Vaguely, he was aware this was likely on the list of things he’d never admit to saying on pain of death, but he didn’t have the time to care.  Once the dam was broken, it was near impossible to seal back up.  The part of him that wasn’t a repressed child in a man’s body knew – had really known for a so time now – that his brother needed to hear it.  Deserved to hear it.  And Dean needed to hear it too.  Had needed to say if for a good ten years now.

“It doesn’t mean you’re weak, or that I think you can’t take care of yourself.  You’re one of the strongest men I know, Sammy.  Sam.”  He gave a small concessionary nod at the correction, which he swore he’d start working on if the kid really wanted him to.  “You’ve got nothing – nothing – to prove to me.”

His brother watched him with watery eyes even as Dean pulled back.  Finally, Sam nodded with a solemnity that told Dean he still expected and accepted his impending death, but that the two would greet that end on better terms than they’d been on for months.

It pissed him off, but he’d take every little victory he could.

-o-o-o-

As soon as the hospital room door closed behind him, Dean tugged at his hair before running his hands punishingly across his scalp.  Tears bit at his eyes and anger ate at his heart, but he refused to give in.

He collapsed in the cheap plastic seats that lined the hallway and let out a broken exhale.

His contacts had gotten back to him over the last couple hours and prospects weren’t looking good.  Some of the witches couldn’t be located – one had been taken out by a hunter last year, another by a bad deal just a few months ago.  The medicine men were notoriously hard to get a hold of, and a few of his hunter buddies were still on it, but they’d made it pretty clear not to expect anything soon.

And Sammy needed soon.  He didn’t have time for anything else.

Which left the pagans.  Dean had kind of hoped to avoid them if possible, if only because they were unpredictable in their willingness to help, and a hell of a lot harder to pin down.

He looked down at his cell phone, held tightly enough that he was pretty lucky he hadn’t broken it yet.

Damn it, he needed to talk to someone about this.  Anyone.  He couldn’t keep doing this alone, couldn’t keep it up.  Especially not if Sammy…

“Excuse me.”  Dean looked up to see a nurse standing in front of him, looking uncomfortable as she held a brightly colored paper between her hands.  The woman fidgeted and hesitated, glanced down at the flier and then back to Dean.   She reached up to fiddle with the delicate gold cross hanging from her neck on a small chain.  “I…I don’t usually do this but…”

The nurse looked over her shoulder towards Sammy’s room and Dean straightened, voice and eyes hardening.  “Do what?”

She blushed.  “It’s….It’s just that you seem really down on your luck and it’s so hard to see loved ones…” She thrust the paper out at him.  “He’s the real thing, I’ve seen him work.  I-I know it probably sounds crazy, and I don’t usually-”

The nurse abruptly cut herself off with flushed cheeks.  She gave up her stumbling explanation as Dean took the paper.  The flustered woman made a hurried exit down the hall and when the hunter glanced down at the blocky text, he understood why.

It was a flier for a faith healer, one Reverend Roy Le Grange.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 16

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

They were getting Sam into a wheelchair when Dean came back into the room, having left to pull the Impala up outside the hospital.  It had taken extensive negotiating with the doctors to release his brother into his care.  It wasn’t like keeping him in the hospital was saving him anything; they were just postponing the inevitable, as the doctors kept reminding him.  Dean was pretty sure all that had won him that argument in the end was the doc remembering Dean’s temper and ultimately, though unhappily, acquiescing to save face.  Literally.

So there they were, helping Sam into a wheelchair to get him out of the hospital and onto the road.  Getting the sasquatch into the Impala would be a challenge of itself, but the brother’s would manage.  They always did.

Now all that was left was for Dean to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

Could he trade innocent life for his brother’s? 

Yes.  Yes he could.  And yeah, he was friggin’ torn up about it and he knew Sam would never forgive him.  But when it came down to it, time and time again had proved there was little in this life Dean wouldn’t do to keep Sam safe.

Was he going to trade an innocent life for his brother’s?

Dean had no friggin’ clue.  Either way, someone had to take care of the pastor’s wife and break her hold on the reaper.  So they might as well start there, and he could figure the rest of it out on the way.

“Where are we going?” Sam asked with genuine curiosity once he’d recovered his breath and his head had stopped pounding.  Well, it never stopped, but it did lessen to the point where he could actually hear his brother’s response over the drumming.

The nurse behind his wheelchair gave Dean a nasty look at the obvious exhaustion and pain her patient was in.  The hunter didn’t care.  Yeah, his brother looked like shit and it was obvious he should be in a hospital bed, not checking out AMA, but it didn’t matter.  A reaper in Nebraska had a hell of a better chance of fixing Sammy than staying there did.

Ignoring the woman and focusing back on his brother’s question, Dean contemplated what to say.  He couldn’t tell Sammy the plan – not yet.  One: because he didn’t actually have a plan.  And B: the kid would never get in the car if he knew Dean was considering trading someone else’s life for his. 

What had Sam lied his ass off calling it?

“We’re going to a specialist.”

-o-o-o-

They were outside the motel Dean had spent the night in - a crap-ass, rundown place that was within manageable distance to the hospital in case of emergency but far enough away for a reduced police presence.  They had just kidnapped a girl three states over, after all.  Dean was throwing the last of his bags and all of the research he’d hastily packed back into the trunk while Sam dozed lightly in the front seat in the late morning sun.  Not only was the kid not up for any sort of physical activity, including something as limited as walking, but they weren’t getting him out of the car if they didn’t have to.

Managing to get his weak butt into the low-riding muscle car had been a comedy skit in the making.

Dean grabbed their duffle full of sawed-offs and handguns, intending to toss it further into the trunk until he had time to put everything back in its proper place beneath the hidden panel, when he knocked his go-bag off of its current spot propped on the spare gas tank and canisters of holy water.  The contents toppled out of his bag almost lazily, taunting him for not taking the time to close the damn zipper before he’d shoved the thing in the trunk with their other bags.

The hunter moved to toss everything back inside, annoyed and already at his tension limit for the week, when a glint of gold caught his eye.  The amulet Sam had given him fourteen years ago stared up at him from the floor of the trunk, right beneath his outstretched hand. 

The man from the future stared at the little horned head and sightless eyes perfectly propped between a Black Sabbath shirt and his FBI badge.  Raising his head with a discretion that was wholly unnecessary, the hunter peaked between the raised trunk and windshield to stare at the back of his brother’s head.

Dean Winchester didn’t believe in signs and he believed even less in the God that would be sending this one.  But as he stared at the one thing in life he did have faith in, and always would, he made a decision to listen, just this once. 

Scooping the amulet up, he shoved his clothes to the side, threw the duffel of weapons on top, and shut the trunk.  Time would tell if it was as dumb-ass a decision as he suspected. 

Sam opened his eyes as Dean climbed into the driver’s seat.  His brother was looping something around the rear view mirror, catching Sam’s attention.  He sat up a little more, blinking the exhaustion from his eyes, and stared at the amulet dangling just beneath the mirror.

Dean chanced a glance his way, then cleared his throat at the surprise and muddled emotion there.  Ignoring the utter chick-flick moment that a high school playwright would surely swoon over in years to come, the older Winchester put the car in drive and headed for Ford City, Nebraska.

-o-o-o-                 

They called John from the road. 

It, of course, went to voicemail.  Neither were surprised.  They left the message about the Baku and hung up. 

There wasn’t much point in saying anything else.

-o-o-o-

“You are such a liar.” 

Sam laughed weakly in the front seat, somehow amused by all of this despite the fact that he was definitely a shade more grey than he had been at the hospital.  He stared out the rain-speckled window at the white tent and large sign proclaiming the True Believers Revival Church.

“Shaddup,” Dean muttered, turning off the engine and leaning over to look out Sam’s window as well. 

“Dean, no way you believe this crap.  So what are we doing here?”

His brother spared him a look that said he really, really didn’t want to answer.  “You don’t think he’s the real deal?”

Sam let out another laugh, though it dipped into a cough at the end that had Dean digging into the pharmacy bag for his meds and handing one of the muscle relaxers over.  The younger hunter looked loathe to take it, but did so anyway.

“Sure, he could be.  I believe there’s just as much good in this world as evil.”  He swallowed down the pill and leaned his head back against the leather, still watching his brother.  He looked completely wiped out.  “But I know you don’t.  So what’s really going on?”

His older brother hesitated before bobbing his head in that way of his that said he wasn’t going to lie but he wasn’t going to give a straight answer either.  “The pastor’s wife hooked a reaper.”

Sam blinked at him slowly, and it was a testament to the damage in his system that it took him a comically long time to parse Dean’s meaning.  When he did, his eyes widened and he immediately sat up, triggering another coughing spell.  Dean was ready for it, already pushing him back into the seat with a gentle hand and an offered water bottle.

The young Winchester tried to talk twice before he was ready, finally having to concede the battle and slow down enough to drink the water. 

“Dean, no.”  He shook his head minuscule as soon as he was able, afraid to trigger another bout of pounding pain.  “You are not trading my life for someone else’s.”

“Yeah, thanks for that Spock.  I’m aware.”  He looked back out the front window and added on, muttered slow lowly that Sam almost didn’t catch it, “If that was the plan, I wouldn’t have told it to you first.”

The look Sam gave his brother was not a kind one.  And maybe if he didn't think he'd be dead in a week, he'd have raised hell about his brother even considering going behind his back about something like that.

“If the reaper is killing people, even to save lives, we have to stop it.”  

“I know, Sammy.  Damnit, I mean Sam.”  Dean sighed raggedly and pinched the bridge of his nose.  But he went for the door handle all the same, pushing open the driver’s side.  “And there’s no we in this one.  You sit your ass there and rest.  I’ll take care of it.”

“Dean?”  His brother stopped moving, one foot out of the car and his hand on the steering wheel.  He looked over his shoulder at him and it was obvious to the younger hunter how hard his brother was trying to hide the fear in his eyes.  “Sammy’s fine.”

Green eyes stared at him, incredulous at first before they hardened into something almost dangerous.  Certainly angry.  He climbed back fully in the car, pulling the door shut with a harsh sound.  “Don’t you dare.  Don’t you start making speeches.”

“I’m not-”

“You’re not dying, Sam.  I won’t let you.  So don’t start with the goodbye concessions.”

Sam stared at his brother, gaze sympathetic.  Dean hated it.  They weren’t having this conversation again.  He went for the door handle when a knock startled both of them.

A young, cute blonde stood on the other side of Sam’s window.  She was smiling gently at them, a stern-faced woman with an umbrella standing just behind her, looking both impatient and concerned all in one, constipated expression.  Sam took great effort to roll the window down, wheezing once he’d finished.

“Are you going to sit out here all day, or come in?”

Dean remembered Layla Rourke’s smile like it was yesterday and his heart contracted so strongly in his chest that he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

My god.  He was going to kill this woman twice.

Sam grinned up at her, both playful and sincere in only the way Sam Winchester could be.  “My brother doesn’t believe in faith healers.”

Layla’s smile grew wider and more than a little playful as she winked at the ailing hunter.  “Well, lucky for you, he doesn’t look like the one in need of healing.”

She opened Sammy’s door and carefully stepped back in the mud.  “Come on, I’ll walk you in.”

Sam gave his brother a look like ‘You coming?’ as he took Layla’s hand and let her help him out of the Impala.

Dean, halfway to telling his brother to get his broken, dying ass back into the car and rest while he go ganked a reaper, instead scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair to avoid punching the steering wheel out of sheer stress.  He threw open his door and followed after the pair with utterly no clue what he was going to do when they got inside.

-o-o-o-

The next morning, Sam weakly passed his laptop over to Dean, an article pulled up about a local woman who had died the day before, complications from a stroke the article said.  Only she was twenty-four, had no prior history of medical problems, and ran a local abortion clinic that was currently in a rather nasty feud with a particularly conservative church less than a city block away.

“You were right.”

Dean didn’t need to read the article.  Roy had cured an older man last night, suffering from debilitating and ultimately fatal complications of a massive stroke.

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you stop it?”  The anger in Sam’s voice didn’t surprise him, but the strength of it did.   He scrubbed a hand down his face and got up from the small table, pacing the room.  Sam watched his every move.  “You didn’t stop it because you still haven’t decided if you’re going to use it.  Dean, you are not trading my life for some innocent person’s!”

“I know, Sammy!”  The haggard hunter spun around and he looked so, so very tired.  He threw his arms out, defeat in every line of his body.  “I know, okay?  Living with that would kill you.  Believe me, I get it, better than anybody!”

Because he still carried that guilt himself, to this day, for a teacher in another life who had died so he could live.  He slumped down on the bed.  “But I’m not losing you.”

Sam watched his brother falling apart before his eyes and swallowed past the growing lump in his throat caused by more than just his failing body.  He knew that Dean had abandonment issues, and he knew he’d only reinforced those time and time again throughout their childhood.  But his brother was a rock, strong in ways Sam couldn’t even begin to match. 

He wrongly assumed Dean would be fine without him.

“Okay,” he whispered, causing his older brother to look up, already fighting to hide the water in his green eyes because heaven forbid he should shed an unmanly tear while talking about the inevitable death of his own brother.  “I believe you, Dean.  You’ll find a way to save me.  But this isn't it.”

-o-o-o-

The afternoon service was about to start and Dean still hadn’t gotten out of the car.  Sam was watching him, caught somewhere between a lecture and a laugh.  He rarely ever saw his older brother hesitate, and it was clear Dean was fighting himself and getting nowhere.

Sam had made his wishes crystal clear that morning; they would find another way.

“What are you going to do?”  He settled on a neutral question.  No need to spark Dean’s temper or current anxieties. 

“Hell if I know,” his brother muttered back, but it got him opening the Impala door.  “Just stay in the car this time, alright?”

Sam answered by leaning his head against the back of the seat and watching his brother struggle his way through the mud and into the tent.

-o-o-o-

As the minutes ticked by, he stared at the roof of the Impala and contemplated calling Jess.

They’d been e-mailing back and forth pretty regularly, and he sometimes snuck away at night to sit in the Impala and just listen to her voice as she talked about her day, or her parents, or how good it was to spend some time back in her hometown.

In some ways, it was the best part of Sam’s day.  In others, it was an awkward dance that he knew would half to end eventually.  Sam would never lie to her, but Jess would want to know how he was doing and he couldn’t really answer without telling her more of the truths and horrors in his life than he wanted to.  On the rare occasions he did breakdown discuss a hunt, or their search for their father, or the yellow-eyed demon, he could hear the uncertainty in her voice as she tried to support and care for him from afar.  She didn’t know how to broach the supernatural aspect of Sam’s life, and he didn’t want to involve her in it anyway. 

Still, he loved hearing how she was doing, back in a world without monsters and demons.  Back in a life he used to have.

He should probably call her.

Jess expressed her fear pretty early on in his road trip that one day she would just stop hearing from him.  That she would never know what happened, only that he was likely dead.

Sam had made Dean swear, on pain of being haunted for the rest of his life by an irate ghost, to tell Jess should anything like that happen.  The older Winchester waved it off with a ‘nothing will, relax’, but eventually Sam got him to promise all the same.

And something like it did happen, in the end.

The youngest Winchester sighed and closed his eyes.  He should call her.  He didn’t have much hope in any of Dean’s backup plans, though for the sake of his brother he would give each of them the chance Dean thought they deserved.  Maybe he could hold off calling Jess for a little while longer.  Just in case his brother did pull a miracle out of nowhere.                                                                                                                           

-0-0-0-

He was almost asleep, lulled by the warmth of the sun and the safe cocoon of the Impala’s interior, when a knock on glass startled him awake.  Sam sat up, looking to the driver’s side window and expecting to see his temperamental brother climbing into the car, or perhaps the young woman from yesterday come to fetch him again.

The person who did climb into the car had Sam startled all the way off the seat, out of the vehicle, and stumbling through the mud.

“Now, now,” Yellow Eyes held out his hands in placation, a look of mock worry on his face as he leaned over into the passenger’s side of Impala so he could look up at Sam through his still open door.  “Easy there, son.  We wouldn’t want you keeling over before it’s time.”

Sam couldn’t tell if his struggle to breathe came from the pounding in his heart or in his head.  He clenched at his shirt as he bent near-over trying to catch a wisp of air and not pass out from the rushing in his brain.  The demon sat patiently in the car, watching him with an idyllic look on his borrowed face.

Damn it, he had nothing.  No weapons, no holy water.  He’d mistakenly assumed the Impala was safe.  The colt was in the devil-trapped trunk, and even as his eyes darted too it, Yellow Eyes tsk’ed.

“Lot of innocents around, Sammy.”  He smiled up at the ailing man as the hunter straightened, shoving his hurts away by sheer force of will.  “We wouldn’t want things to get messy, now would we?”

Sam clenched his fists by his sides and, wheezing, bit out, “Only my brother calls me that.”

The demon was climbing out of the car with the energy of a kid seeing the circus for the first time and the hunter stumbled back through the muddy ground to keep his distance.  Yellow Eyes turned raised his hands in a truce.

“I’m not here to cause trouble.  I’m actually here to help.”

“I doubt that,” the hunter shot back.

Yellow Eyes didn’t seem phased by his vitriol in the slightest.  He just kept grinning at the hunter.  “Pushing your powers.  Now that’s something else, tiger.  I knew I was picking the right horse when I bet on you.”

Sam swayed slightly, but held his ground against his waning strength.  “Bet on me for what?”

“Big things, Sammy.”

“I told you, only my brother gets to call me that.” 

“Yes.  Your brother.”  The demon’s eyes shifted over Sam’s shoulder to the tent behind him and the hunter stiffened.  “The last minute entry in all this.  He’s got us quite abuzz downstairs.”

He fluttered his fingers in a jazz hands motion and Sam frowned at the theatrics.  Whatever the demon wanted, he sure was taking his sweet time getting to it.  The hunter wondered what the odds were of him passing out before the murderer got to his point.

The demon seemed to notice his fading attention span and clasped his hands together like a businessman about to make a deal.  Dread pooled in Sam’s gut, but there was little he could do about it.

“Do you know who it is talking to him, kiddo?  We’d really like to know.  We denizens of Hell frown on cheating when we’re not the ones doing it.”

Sam pulled a face that clearly expressed his answer. 

“Like hell you aren’t.  One of you is ‘betting’ on Dean just like you are with me.”  The hunter held his arms out in a move of self-deprecation.  “Guess what, you picked the wrong horse.”

Yellow Eyes tilted his head and a flicker of confusion turned quickly into curiosity
“Oh, kiddo.  Dean’s not in this race.”

Sam dropped his arms.  “What?”

The demon leaned back against the Impala, watching the kid with amusement.  “He may be a contender for the Triple Crown, but we’re not there yet.  Hell, we’re haven’t even made it to the Kentucky Derby.  And unlike you, your brother’s not one of my entries.”

The hunter scrambled to follow the stupid metaphor.  “One?”

The demon grinned, shoving off the car towards him.  Sam stumbled back for every step he took forward, but the human lost ground easily.  “That’s right.  My special kids.  You’re on of ‘em, Sammy, but I gotta admit: you’re my favorite.  Because you push.  You’ve got a drive the others don’t.  And it’s going to serve you well.”

Sam snorted, and winced at the spike of pain it sent through his head.  “Yeah, it’s serving me great right now.”

Yellow Eyes suddenly split into a 100-watt smile and reached behind his back.  Sam raised his arms, prepared to fight by hand if he had to.  When the demon pulled back, he was holding a large mason jar filled with a thick, dark liquid, and nothing more.  The hunter stared at it dubiously as Yellow Eyes raised it up to eye level like a prized jewel.

“You just pushed yourself a little further than you’re ready for.”  The demon bounced the jar up and down, and the liquid within sloshed along the sides, painting the glass crimson red. “But I can help fix that.  No reaper needed, no innocent life lost for little ole you.”

Sam took a step back, staring at the jar with a growing sense of trepidation.  “What is that?”

“What does it look like, kiddo?”

The hunter stared at the liquid, then the demon.  He squared his shoulders, keeping a defiant chin and a strong stance, despite feeling anything but.  “It looks like blood.”

“Bullseye!  Shooting straight down the center, Sam.  That’s what I like about you.”  Yellow Eyes jiggled the container playfully.  “This here is demon blood.  A pint of yours truly.”

Sam took another step back, eyes widening.  Crap.  Blood had been bad enough, but whatever the demon planned to do with that much of his own blood was probably a lot worse.  Yellow Eyes let him gain the distance without closing in on him.

“See, the reason you’re sick is because you’re overdue for an oil change.  Just need more of what you’ve already got in you.”

The youngest Winchester paled as his injured brain registered the creature’s meaning.  The dread in his stomach solidified to a concrete slab, sinking deep within his bones.  “Wh-what?”

“That night in the nursery.  The night I killed your mommy,” the demon winked his way and Sam’s anger spiked through his fear and revulsion for a moment of crystal clarity.  “I gave you your first taste.  Bled in your mouth, tiger, and now you’ve got super powers!  Not a bad trade, right?”

“You’re crazy.”  Sam shook his head.  “I’m not drinking that, even if what you say is true.  Especially if what you say is true.”

The demon tsk’ed, looking down at the container of blood.  “Come on now, kiddo.  You’re not the martyr of the family.  That’s your brother’s job.  You want to go back to your nine-to-five life and that pretty gal o’ yours?  Can’t live happily ever after if you’re dead.”

“I can’t play your sick game if I’m dead either.”

Yellow Eyes sucked air through his teeth as he kept the smile up, but it turned a touch more dangerous. 

“Sam?”  Both hunter and demon turned at the soft, uncertain voice coming from behind him.  Layla was standing just a few feet away, having come out of the tent looking for the ailing boy missing from the service.  Her eyes darted between the two men.  “Is…Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Sam answered hastily, holding his hand out to keep her from coming any closer.  “Everything is fine, Layla.  Go back inside.” 

God, if the demon attacked her, there was nothing Sam could do.  He glanced back at Yellow Eyes with a warning, but the demon just raised his eyebrows and looked wounded at the accusation in those brown eyes.

He turned his gaze to the woman, and got a thrill of enjoyment at the way Sam tensed and slid a step over to stand between them.

“My dear, perhaps you can help us.  I’m trying to convince Sam here that I’ve got the miracle cure he needs.”

“Right.”  The blonde rolled her eyes at him before focusing back on the hunter.  “Sam, why don’t you walk me back inside?”

Yellow Eyes laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.  “Such cynicism from the follower of a faith healer!”

Layla lost her false calm and sweet smile, staring at the demon with a fierceness Sam found remarkable.  “I’ve seen what Roy can do.  His healing is real.”

She held her hand out once more for Sam, but the yellow-eyed demon wasn’t done yet.

“Oh, if it’s a demonstration that you need, please; allow me to prove myself.” 

The two humans turned slowly back to the demon.  His tone was not a request and Layla glanced at Sam nervously.  Courageous as she may, she could sense the danger coming off the man in waves. 

He held the jar out towards the hunter, a dangerous glint in his eye.  “Come on, tiger.  Let’s show Layla here what a real miracle looks like.”

The hunter heard the threat and closed his eyes.  Damn it, the demon would kill her in a heartbeat if Sam refused.  And the boy wasn’t about to stand by while another innocent woman suffered from just knowing him, just from being brave and facing down danger to stand beside him.

No, he wasn’t letting it happen again. 

“Heal her first.”  He opened his eyes and locked a fierce, challenging gaze on the demon.  “She has a brain tumor.  Get rid of it and I’ll do it.”

“Done.”  The demon smiled widely and turned to Layla.  “Run along now, your part here is over.”

She glanced between the very dangerous thing standing feet from her and the sweet boy she’d come outside to get because she believed he deserved healing as much as she did.  “Sam-“

He gave her a soft nod.  “Go, Layla.”

It was the urgency in his voice that finally did it.  She turned and started towards the tent at as fast a pace as she dared.  By the time she hit the opening she was running.

Sam turned back to the yellow-eyed demon only to find him standing right in front of him, jar of blood held out.  The hunter stumbled back a step by instinct, but steeled himself as he found his balance. 

He had made a deal, and Layla’s life was worth it.

The youngest Winchester took the container, stomach revolting at the cold touch of glass with a hint of warmth running under the surface.  The demon stood, observant as Sam unscrewed the lid and, watching those yellow irises, raised it to his lips.

His stomach nearly upended that morning’s meager breakfast at the first metallic gulp that slid down his throat like oil sludge.  He coughed, pulling the jar away and gasping down the urge to vomit.

“All of it, Sammy.  Or you won’t grow big and strong.”

The hunter glared at the demon, but took a deep breath tossed back the rest of the jar.

 The empty glass sank into the mud as he fell to his knees.  He heard Dean screaming his name from across the parking lot.  But it, and everything else around him, was quickly overcome by the pounding of blood through his veins.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 17

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The minute he met those pale yellow irises, Azazel was gone. 

Dean took off across the parking lot all the same, hard and fast as his feet could carry him over the wet ground towards his collapsed brother.  Sam was on his hands and knees in the mud, hacking up what could very well be his lungs at this point.

“Sammy!”

Layla had come running into the tent, lungs gasping for breath and fear in her eyes.  Lucky for him, he’d been making a hasty retreat towards the exit before the whole congregation figured out Roy wasn’t healing anyone anymore, or before Sue Ann made a bigger scene than she already had behind the make-shift church as she tried to gather the shattered remains of her Coptic cross. 

 Now, Layla was hot on his heels as they raced through the mud.

“Where did that man go?” She huffed from behind him, worry still coloring the edges of her voice with fear. 

Dean didn’t bother answering.  He had more important things on his mind; mainly, his brother currently spitting up blood and dry heaving in the mud.  The hunter fell to his knees beside his brother, grabbing him by the shoulders.  “Sam!”

“I-I’m okay,” his brother managed to wheeze between heaves and gasps.  He wiped clumsily at his mouth but his hands were filthy and did nothing but smear mud across his face. 

“What did he do to you?  Where are you hurt?” Dean frantically felt his brother for injuries, for whatever was causing the bleeding.  He checked his face and his unfocused gaze before Sam finally pushed him away.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, and when Dean took a moment to really see him, he looked it.  Color had returned to his cheeks and he didn’t look nearly as sallow or pale as he had when Dean left him in the car fifteen minutes ago.  “I feel….Okay.  I-I feel good.”

 “What?”  Confused, Dean glanced around, mainly out of the hunter-trained habit of ensuring they were not in any immediate danger.  His eyes stopped on the empty jar lying beside his brother in the mud.  The mud-covered glass was ringed in still dripping red and Dean’s stomach tightened as he picked it up and a coppery scent tainted the air.

“Sam….What is this?”  He held it up to his brother, grip threatening to break the glass.  “What was in here?”

Brown eyes locked on the jar and Dean had his answer in the fear and revulsion in his brother’s face.  His hands shook as he tried once more to sit upright on unsteady limbs.  Layla offered a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Sam?”

“Bl-Blood.” 

Behind them, Layla hid her gaps behind her hands, staring between the two boys in horror.  Sam lowered his gaze, looking ready to throw up as he wiped again at his mouth and throat.  Dean could see the red dripping down his chin, mixing with the mud and he dropped the jar. 

Numbness overtook the man from the future as Sam continued to insist he felt fine.  Better, even, than he had since the hospital.

-o-o-o- 

“There’s no evidence of any damage,” the doctor announced with a smile as she handed over the MRI results.  Sam took them, still staring in disbelief.  She patted his shoulder.  “Try not to worry so much.  A man of your age, in your physical condition?  You’ve nothing to worry about.”

He looked to his brother, but Dean was staring at the wall, jaw clenched and shoulders taut.  Something dark sat heavy in Dean’s eyes, but Sam didn’t know what it was, and his brother was barely talking to him.

-o-o-o-

They sat in the Impala, parked outside their motel.  They’d been sitting there for several minutes, neither of the brothers moving to get out of the car.  Sam was having trouble shaking off the events of the last twenty four hours.  Or the truths that he’d learned. 

Dean…Dean didn’t know what to think.  What to do.  Demon blood hadn’t even been on the list of things to fix Sammy.  Hell, if it had been, it would have been at the damn bottom, below selling his soul and summoning fucking Gabriel in a ring of Holy Oil. 

And what now?  Jesus, were they looking at blood addiction again?  Last time it had been gradual.  Ruby started him off slow and built up his intake over months and months.  What was going to happen with a friggin pint chug? 

Dean scrubbed at his scalp and face, his chest constricted and head pounding in despair.  Jesus Christ, he really was making everything so much worse and he had no idea how to stop it.

“Did you take care of the reaper?”

The question was as bland as the rest of his brother, who sat numbly in the passenger seat, staring at a blank world outside their car and seeing none of it. 

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled in reply.  “Released the hold the wife had on him.  Pretty sure he took care of her himself.”

Sam nodded, not seeming the least bit regretful of the human life lost.  Not that he necessarily should.  Sue Ann brought it on herself, playing God and deciding who lived and who died based on her own warped sense of morality.

“Why would you drink it?”  The words were out of Dean’s mouth before he could think them through.  Yeah, sure, that was a question he wanted answers to.  Right along with Are you sure you’re alright?  Not feeling any murderous, blood-sucking cravings, are you?  Do I need to drive us straight to Bobby’s and lock you in the panic room?

Of everything he could ask though, choosing the one that absolutely made it sound like this was all Sammy’s fault was really, really not what he’d meant to do.

“Layla was there,” Sam bit out defensively, shooting his brother a wounded glare before retuning his gaze to his hands.  He didn’t have the energy to fight about this, and it had nothing to do with having been on the brink of death five hours ago.  Really, he felt fine now.  Better than fine, he felt….strong.

Maybe stronger than before he’d ended up in the hospital.  It was hard to tell.

He clenched his hands into fists in his lap.  “He would have killed her.  I didn’t exactly a choice, Dean.”

Beside him, his brother let out a haggard sigh, slumping in the driver’s seat.  “I know.”

The two brothers were silent, but the tension laying thick in the car was no longer between them, so much as around them.  Sam took a deep breath.

“He said…he said I needed more of what I already had in me.”  The younger hunter chanced a look at his brother, and his gaze was pained and so damn terrified.  “That night in the nursery…”

“He said that?” Dean echoed quietly, staring at his kid brother with a pain of his own. 

“If Yellow Eyes did that to me as a kid…”  Sam trailed off.  “He told me he bled in my mouth that night and that’s why I have visions.  Mom must have…must have-”

“Don’t.”  Dean shook his head violently.  “Look at me, Sammy.  If Mom saw him that night, she would have fought tooth and nail to save you.”

He thought about the fierce, spitfire hunter that Mary Winchester had been in 1973.  Yeah, she would have given Azazel hell for setting foot in her house, let alone threatening her son.  He knew she’d look at her life as small change for the fight to keep Sammy safe.   

“What happened that night…It wasn’t your fault.”

Sam was staring at him with water gathering in his eyes that he fought back valiantly.  He wiped haphazardly at his eyes, and sniffing as he looked away with a nod.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I know.” 

After a moment of silence, he pushed on.

“If Yellow Eyes did that to me…” Sam swallowed and looked at his brother, eyes darting to his chest and then back to his face, “then maybe Cass did something to you.”

The hunter was shaking his head before he’d even finished, and Sam clenched his teeth in a flare of anger.  He was tired of Dean keeping secrets.  He was tired of being lied to.  He no longer knew if his brother just couldn’t see it, or if he was in so deep that there was nothing left he could do about it.  Either way, it was damn time they talked about it.

“Dean, the visions you’re having, that pain in your chest; maybe this demon is after you like Yellow Eyes is me!  He said we were entries in a race.  Some sort of…Battle Royale, I don’t know.  But if I’m his ‘entry,’ than maybe this Cass-”

“Cas isn’t a demon.”  It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, with such conviction that he knew he couldn’t take it back or bluff his way out of what he’d just said. 

Not that he was sure he wanted to.  Something sat ugly in his chest every time Sam called Cas a demon.  He wasn’t sure if it was how close to the truth that had almost gotten at the end, with Lucifer sitting pretty in a Cas-shaped time-share, or if he just couldn’t stand the thought of Sam thinking he was in bed with a demon.

Sam was just watching him, waiting.  Damn that kid, knowing all of Dean’s weaknesses; he’d never been good at silence.

He wrung the leather of Baby’s steering wheel in his hands, staring at the motel door on the other side of the windshield.  His gut twisted.  He couldn’t believe what he was about to say.

“Look, I got no proof, okay?”  He spared Sam a glance.  “Nothing to back-up the complete crazy I’m about to tell you.  And trust me, it’s going to sound crazy.”

Sam regarded him for a moment before nodding solemnly.  His hardened stare turned a little softer.  “I believe you, Dean.  Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Dean had to swallow several times around the giant lump in his throat.  God, he hoped this didn’t fuck up the timeline irreparably. 

Of course…could he really make it much worse than it already was?

“Cas- Castiel is an angel.” 

He waited a beat, the silence in the small space damn near crushing.

“Like, of the Lord.”

Yeah, awesome, that sounded about as convincing as Peewee Herman proclaiming he was a weight-lifting champion.  This conversation was going fantastically.  Well, the world hadn’t ended yet, so he supposed it could be going worse.

Silence settled in the car like sludge and Dean wrung the wheel again and again until the leather started creaking beneath his grip.

“Okay.”

The older hunter’s head whipped to the side to take in his brother, who looked contemplative and not nearly as skeptical or pissed as he should be.

“What?”

“I believe you.”

“You…What?  Just like that?”

Sam gave a half shrug that was way too casual and calm for the bombshell Dean just dropped.  “Demons are real.  Why wouldn’t angels be?”

“Seriously?!”

His brother spared him a glance that Dean immediately found patronizing.  “You sound like you don’t believe he’s an angel.”

“Oh, I believe it,” he scoffed.  In fact, that was one of the few things in this current Alternate Timeline Clusterfuck that he had any confidence in.  And he was totally not clinging to it like a life raft on the titanic, with him as the drowned rat from stowage.  Not at all.  “I just needed something a little more concrete than his word.”

Sam perked up at the muttered admission, eyebrows rising into his hairline.  “Like what?”

What would an angel show to prove himself to a paranoid, black and white, distrustful hunter like his brother?    

Dean mumbled something, blatantly avoiding eye contact with his brother as his ears flushed red.  And God, not even he knew why he was blushing at the memory of that night in the barn, where a pair of shadows had him almost shitting his pants.

Embarrassment at needing a new pair of pants.  That was definitely it.

“What was that?”

Dean rolled his eyes and repeated himself, louder than necessary this time.  “He showed me his wings, alright?”

Curiosity lit Sam’s eyes like a fat kid in a donut shop.  “Really?  What were they like?  Were they…like a bird’s?  With feathers?”

The man from the future rolled his eyes.  Of course his nerd brother would want to play 60 questions about an angel’s friggin’ wings.  He didn’t know, he’d never actually asked the guy about them!

“No, I mean- maybe.  All I saw were shadows,” Dean answered lamely, refusing to look at his brother.  Well great, that didn’t sound totally made up at all.  Shit, if Sam asked for further proof, what the hell was he gonna give him?

“…Did he have a halo?”

He could hear the way Sam was barely holding back a snigger and shot him a dirty glare.  

“Alright, shaddup.”  He pushed open the door of the Impala and declared the conversation over. 

-o-o-o-

“You seriously believe me?” 

Sam dropped the last of his clothes into the duffel bag on the motel bed.  He glanced at his brother.   When he saw the look in his eye, like he desperately needed his brother to say yes but couldn’t believe it would be the truth, he turned and gave him his full attention.

“Dean, I know you’re hiding stuff – still hiding stuff,” he emphasized, and the hunter across the room decided not to feel gut-crushing guilt at that by sheer force of will, “but I trust you.  If you’re sure it’s an angel talking to you, then okay.”

Dean didn’t respond right away, mulling over the sasquatch’s words before settling on the best response he had that wouldn’t push further or start a fight.  Well.  Much of a fight.  “You are such a nerd.”

“And you are a jerk,” Sam responded in kind, turning back to the last of their packing.  They should hit the road and get back to the search for Dad, now that they knew what it was hunting him.  “What I’d like to know is why an angel and a demon would bother with us in the first place.  That sounds….big, Dean.  Like, biblical, ugly big.”

Across the room, Dean’s hand tightened on the shotgun he was sliding into his duffel.

Oh Sammy, you have no idea.

-o-o-o-

Dean offered to load the bags while Sam jumped in the shower.  He had wiped off the mud and changed into a clean set of clothes before they stopped at the hospital, but he still felt dirty.  Dean had more than understood and ventured outside to get Baby ready for the road and give his brother some space.

The water fell heavy across Sam’s shoulders as he braced himself against the tile wall.  He felt heavy and light all in the same breath, and had since the church. 

He stared at his hand, spread across the warm tiles.  He flexed the tendons in his fingers, watching the flexors slide over his knuckles, like serpents just under his skin.  Water slid down the back of his hand in tiny rivulets.

There was something there.  Something just beneath the surface.  It might have always been there; he couldn’t say with certainty that it had.  Maybe he’d felt it before.  Always.  Felt it when he stood beside his brother and his father and hunted things he didn’t want to hunt.  Faced evil he wasn’t always sure was evil.  Became a killer when he didn’t want to kill. 

Maybe he’d felt it, sitting in a lecture hall with people he would never fit in with, in a world he didn’t belong to.  Normal kids, who didn’t know about the darkness in the world.  Who didn’t have it in them. 

Maybe he’d felt it, lying in bed with Jess curled against his body, his arms wrapped around her as he desperately bathed in her light and love and goodness. 

Maybe it had always been there.

His fingers curled against the tile and it creaked and strained beneath his nails.  Sam pulled away suddenly, both terrified and thrilled at the micro-fissures running across the smooth surface.  The boy turned away from the tiles.  They were old and already crumbling, like the rest of the motel.  Grabbing the soap, he focused on scrubbing the dirt and past from his skin and forced himself to stop thinking.  To stop looking.

Because whether or not it had been there before, something was there now.  Just beneath the surface.  

Sam had always been fit.  But now….now he could feel the strength, pulsing with the flow of his blood.  It called to him as much as it scared him, and he couldn’t help but wonder which side of that war was going to win.

-o-o-o-

Layla Rourke caught them on their way out of the motel, and Dean looked between her and his brother, confused.  This had happened last time, he remembered, but they’d spent far fewer time with her this go around.  His heart ached at the idea of having another conversation of faith with the dying woman, especially knowing God as he did now, and where faith got you in this world.

“Hey,” she greeted them softly, looking more uncertain than Dean ever remembered seeing her.  She smiled at them, but with a tremor of something in the expression that he didn’t know what to do with.  Layla was hardly afraid of them, but there was fear in the way she played with her hands and couldn’t quite settle her eyes anywhere.  “Sam called me.  I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Dean answered, setting the last bag he was carrying onto the trunk of the Impala.  Sam offered her a quick hug in greeting.  She looked like she needed the physical reassurance.

“I suppose this is goodbye…”  Layla pulled away from Sam after a moment, glancing between the two of them hesitantly.  “Mom and I went to the doctor.  She- I….I haven’t run like I did back there in….in years.”

Dean glanced at Sam, confusion sparking in his green eyes.  His brother just looked regretful, but there was a vein of strength – relief – in the line of his shoulders.

“The tumor is…it’s gone.”

The older of the two stared at her, slack-jawed.  She gave him a weak smile but turned to Sam, the expression becoming far more brittle.  “That man-”

“Don’t, Layla,” the taller man answered softly.  He offered a grim smile of his own.  “You’re better off not knowing.  I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She stared up at him, tears in her eyes but her nod was firm.  “And Sue Ann?  Did you hear what happened to….  R-Roy can’t…Oh God, poor Roy.”

Dean took an aborted step forward, then stopped, and finally followed through to wrap the shaking woman in a gentle hug.  “He’ll be alright, Layla.  Roy’s a good man.  He- he didn’t deserve what happened.”

Sam was staring at him, brow furled.  Dean shook his head minutely.  Later.

Her arms came up around his back as she leaned into his supportive weight.  She hardly knew this man, either of these men, and yet… She was sure that they had somehow saved her life, in ways that Roy never could have.

-o-o-o-

Sam sat in the Impala, staring out the windshield as Layla and Dean talked quietly a few feet away.  She had asked for a moment alone with the older Winchester, so Sam gave her a farewell hug and ducked inside the car to give them some semblance of privacy.

Keeping half an eye on his brother, Sam pulled a small notebook out the bag stuffed in the footwell of the Impala and dug around for a pen.  Dean glanced to him a couple times as he mumbled replies to Layla’s questions on faith, and what happened now. 

Sam may be healed, however miraculously (or otherwise), but that only seemed to triple Dean’s protective, paranoid mother-henning.  Being fixed up by a demon free of charge in exchange for chugging blood probably warranted some of that concern.

Knowing Dean wouldn’t leave him unattended for long, the young hunter uncapped the pen, flipped to a random page, and quickly jotted down a note so he wouldn’t forget to follow up on his suspicions.

Castiel = Angel

Angels = Good?

He shoved the notebook back into his bag without further detail as Dean hugged Layla goodbye and headed for the driver side door.

-o-o-o-

As Dean climbed into the Impala, he held out his phone to his brother.   As soon as Sam had accepted the device with a curious look, he put the car in drive and pulled out of the motel parking lot.

There was an article pulled up on the web app for a local newspaper in Utah.  Six people all in the same small town had slipped into comas over the last month.  Doctors were baffled.  The author noted that the CDC had been notified and an investigation could be the next logical step. 

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother.  Dean had clearly been busy with more than just the car while he was in the shower.

“Could be a Baku,” Dean offered with a shrug as he pulled the car onto the interstate, headed west.  Every nerve ending in his body twitched to take Sam straight to the panic room, but almost twenty-four hours later and he wasn’t showing any signs of withdrawal.  “Might be the one dad’s after.”

The younger Winchester studied the phone with a grim face.  “Then let’s go get it.”

Dean revved the engine and they merged onto the highway taking them west.

-o-o-o-

They’d just crossed the Colorado border when Dean cleared his throat.  “I need you to promise me you won’t do that again.” 

Sam stared at him, confusion waring with irritation.  “Dean, he would have killed Layla.  I told you, it wasn’t a choice.”

“No, not that,” Dean supplied quickly.  Although, yeah, now that they were on that topic, a discussion of ‘no demon deals, ever, period’ followed immediately after by ‘no more demon blood, exclamation mark’ was going to have to happen soon too.  “Don’t push again, alright?”

His younger brother furled his brow at him.

“Your powers – these visions.  They’re…God, Sam, you can’t- we can’t….” He made a frustrated noise at his ever-awesome powers of speech.  “Just promise me you won’t try that again.”

Sam swallowed thickly through the sudden lump in his throat.  He turned his gaze to the asphalt sliding by beneath them in a race of yellow lines and white stripes.  Yeah, that hadn’t been his best move.  Although, to be fair, he had no idea it would be so damaging. 

Honestly, he’d thought, worst case, nothing would happen. 

Twenty-four hours ago, sickly and convinced he’d be dead within the month, he would have agreed in a heartbeat.  And not because he wasn’t going to live long enough to ever try that trick again, but because Dean was right.   Even if he couldn’t articulate it, Sam’s powers were clearly dangerous. 

At least, they had been.  Because now….

Sam looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers.

Now, he knew that if he tried again, he would be successful.  He knew, somehow, just beneath the surface, that he had the power to do it again and succeed this time.  The only thing holding him back was fear of where that power came from, flowing in tune with his own blood.  And how his brother would look at him if he tried.

“Sammy, I’m serious.”

“Okay,” he answered softly, releasing the tension in his hand.   “No pushing.  I promise.”

He was pretty sure it wouldn’t require much pushing anyhow.  Not anymore.                                                                                                                           

-o-o-o-

A few miles down the road, Sam shifted in his seat. “Sam.”

Dean arched a brow at him.  “Uh…Dean.  Now that introductions are out of the way…”

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes.  “It’s Sam, not Sammy.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, no.  No, no, nope.”  Dean popped the final letter with far too much enjoyment.  Brown eyes met green, and his big brother was grinning like an idiot.  “You said Sammy was fine.”

“I was dying, Dean.”

“You still said it.”

Sam shook his head and his brother kept grinning like an idiot.  He supposed Sammy wasn’t the end of the world.

-o-o-o-

They tried calling John again.  The search for the coma patients in Fort Duchesne was slow.  There wasn’t a lot of information accessible by internet alone.  They’d need to get there and start asking questions themselves.

Neither man was surprised when their call went to voicemail.

They were a little more surprised when the phone started ringing before Sam had even set it down.  He shot his brother a look as he pressed the device to his ear.

“Dad?”

“Not exactly.”  Dean could hear Bobby’s gruff voice down the line and tried not to let the tension leaking off him form into disappointment that it wasn’t John calling them back.  “How quick can you boys get here?”

Sam frowned over at his brother, receiving the same look in return.  He switched the phone to speaker mode.  “A couple hours.  We just hit Colorado on the seventy-six, heading for Utah.”

“Well, you better turn around.”  The rough voice had a tinge of regret running through it.  But more than that, there was worry in his voice. 

“What’s going on, Bobby?”  Dean glanced at the phone in his brother’s hand before refocusing on the road.  He flipped Baby’s blinker on, pulling off on the first exit they came to with an on ramp in the opposite direction. 

“It’s your daddy.”  Sam’s gaze locked on Dean’s.  “He’s here and…he ain’t waking up.”

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 18

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

-Twenty Four Hours Earlier-

Bobby stared at the man standing at the bottom of his front porch steps. John looked like crap. The older hunter's grip tightened on the shotgun in his hands, though the barrel remained aimed off to the side. They both knew he wouldn't use it. Probably.

John stared up at his friend through squinted, aching eyes. His whole body was bone-weary and he was pretty sure he was only standing through sheer force of will. Not that he'd ever admit it. Knowing the silence would just keep stretching between the two, he caved with a low growl. "I just need it for a couple hours."

"Don't see why I should let you," the older hunter growled back with narrowed eyes. "You called those boys of yours yet?"

"They don't need to be involved in this." John shook his head. "It's too dangerous."

"What's that make me?" Bobby huffed. "Chopped liver?"

The hunter rolled his eyes. The damn old man knew what he meant. "You can take care of yourself."

Bobby eyed him for a long moment before he finally lowered the shotgun and stepped aside. "So can those boys."

John didn't bother responding, but he did give a grateful nod as he passed the hunter and entered the Singer home. The two old friends hadn't always been on the best of terms. Hell, they were rarely on good terms. But Bobby always pulled through for him, especially when he showed up unannounced at his front door.

Usually with two boys in tow.

"I just need to get a couple hours sleep where this thing can't reach me." John set his duffel down, the clack of metal barrels within a surefire tell of what the canvas bag was full of. "Then I'll be out of your hair."

"If I got any hair left by the time you and your boys are done runnin' through here," Bobby muttered even as he set the shotgun down on hgis desk and headed for the basement door. "The panic room ain't gonna do much good against a dream walker, you know."

Shaking his head, the tired hunter headed past him and down the stairs. "It's not a walker. It's the demon."

Tensing, Bobby glanced at the shotgun before he descended after the younger man. It wouldn't do much good against a demon anyway.

"You're not bringing that thing down on my house, are you?" It wouldn't be the first time John had disregarded friends to catch his prey. The hunter had a reputation of doing whatever it took. Which was why most of the hunting community stayed the hell away from the Winchesters.

John cast him an annoyed glance as he pulled open the door to the panic room. "It can't find me. It's why I know it's him."

At Bobby's frown, he explained, "I keep dreaming of people: Mary, the boys, civilians from old cases. They keep asking me where I am. Over and over again, every night." He shook his head as he pulled off his jacket and climbed onto the cot in the corner, not bothering with the sheet or blanket. "It's how I knew something was wrong. Luckily, I haven't given any of them an answer."

Something about that seemed…off to Bobby. Demons weren't known for entering dreams. At least, none that he'd ever heard. But then again, given the shit Sam and Dean were currently swimming through, what did he know?

He was only the most researched expert on the supernatural this side of the Atlantic and Pacific.

-o-o-o-

He rubbed his eyes as he closed the last book he had on demons. Nothing in that one either about yellow eyes or dream walking. Not that he hadn't damn well searched every book he owned the first time John came to him asking about yellowed-eyed creatures.

He'd thought maybe the dream walking would present a new clue.

The old hunter glanced at the clock on the book shelf behind him. It'd been nearly nine hours, and John hadn't re-surfaced. He needed the rest, that was for sure. Bobby wouldn't expect anyone else to be up and about after four days of no sleep for another six hours, at least.

But this was John Winchester they were talking about. He should have been back on his feet being a pain in Bobby's ass after about four.

He climbed to his feet, groaning at the creak in his bones and the several pops that ran down his spine as he stretched. Damn, he was getting too old for this crap.

Bobby downed the last of his glass of whiskey and headed for the basement stairs, which his old knees were already complaining about. He hobbled his way down them, grumbling under his breath about unthankful house guests, multi-level homes, and retirement on a beach in Guam.

Pulling open the panic room door didn't wake up John like he expected it to, nor did calling his name. Bobby crossed the room with some trepidation and stared down at the hunter with a growing sense of concern.

The cell phone on the shelf beside the cot started vibrating, lighting up with Sam's name. John didn't even twitch.

Well, hopefully the guy didn't sleep with a knife or a gun under his pillow, Bobby groused, not really feeling like getting stabbed today. Yeah, right. What hunter didn't?

He reached out somewhat cautiously, making sure to keep outta arms reach (and knife reach too) should John rouse disoriented. He shook the hunter's shoulder, frowning when he still didn't wake. Several hard slaps later, Bobby knew he'd have to call the boys.

They were gonna be pissed.

Balls.

-o-o-o-

-Present-

Dual doors slammed shut as the two hunters flew out of the Impala, parked haphazardly across Bobby's dirt drive. The screen door flew open as Dean called out the old hunter's name, moving through the house.

"Down here," came the call and the two turned to the basement door, taking the stairs down two at a time.

Bobby was waiting for them at the bottom, ball cap in hand and hair mussed from a recent run through. He hadn't been joking with John. He'd have no hair left by the time this damn nightmare was over.

"Where is he?" Dean didn't stop for the answer, already headed for the panic room even before Bobby nodded that way. Sam gave their adopted father a quick hand to the shoulder as he followed after his brother.

John was lying on the cot along the circular wall of the iron-cased panic room. He didn't look so bad, and could almost pass for asleep if it wasn't for the tight pinch in his brow and the way his hands twitched along the stiff mattress.

"Dad?" The two boys stopped by the side, Dean reaching out to check his father for injuries, feeling along his neck for a pulse too fast for his liking. Sam was kneeling next to him, trying to wake John as he called his name several times.

"Dad!" Dean barked, giving the hunter a firm slap.

"Gee, why didn't I think of that," Bobby groused from the doorway, arms crossed as he leaned against the entrance of the side. Dean spared him a glower.

"Why the hell didn't you call us when he showed up?"

"Dean." Sam sent his brother a warning glance even as he pulled away. John wasn't waking up by conventional means, and arguing and pointing fingers wasn't going to help him.

Bobby actually looked contrite, glancing away from them for a moment before tilting his chin up. "He asked me not to. Don't know why I bothered listening…"

"Why's he in the panic room?" Sam asked, glancing around them for anything stronger they could use to wake John up.

"He thought it was the demon." Bobby pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his hair again. Yup. Gonna be bald, only a matter of time. He replaced his hat. "Said he kept dreaming of people – Mary, you boys – always asking where he was."

Dean swore, glancing back at their dad.

"He figured its influence couldn't reach him in here." Bobby cast his eyes around the iron walls and up to the pentagram shadowed fan. "Lot of good it did him. I gave him a couple hours, figured he'd need it, before I tried to get him back up."

"It's the Baku," Sam explained, eyes trained on his dad as his mind flew through the material he'd read on the beast.

By the door, Bobby straightened, eyes wide. "A Baku?"

"We're pretty sure he was hunting one. I saw it in a vision," the taller of the brothers supplied.

"No, Sam." Dean kicked the edge of the cot angrily. His father's body jerked, but he didn't so much as twitch. "Bakus feed on dreams, not bodies. Why would one care where dad was?"

"But I saw it…" Sam trailed off and away from the immediate defensiveness that his brother questioning his visions always brought to the surface. Brown eyes grew wide as he parsed Dean's words. "You mean…. Shit."

"What?" Bobby asked as he strode into the room. "What the hell is goin' on, boys?"

"The Yellow Eyed Demon," Dean muttered angrily. "He's using a Baku to find dad."

Bobby swore as well. He gestured irately around the room with a roll of his eyes. "Well, no wonder the panic room did shit."

"We've gotta wake him up." Sam grabbed their dad's shoulders again, giving him a good shake even though he knew it was fruitless. "Before he tells the thing where we are."

"Do I need to worry about a demon showing up here?" Bobby asked gruffly, body rigid. He looked twitchy to get upstairs and prep the house for a friggin' war.

"He'll hold on," Dean answered with a shake of his head. "He's a tough son of a bitch. But we gotta get him away from it."

"I've got some African Dream Root." The two brothers turned surprised eyes to Bobby, who gave a little shrug. "Only time we ever got close to fighting off a Baku, Rufus and I had to tackle it on its own turf."

Dean pulled his head back. "When did you take on a Baku?"

Bobby gave him a look that clearly said what he thought of Dean acting like he knew everything the far older hunter had ever done. "Couple years back, in Alaska."

That really tripped the kid up and he stared at his surrogate father figure. "What the hell were you doing in Alaska?"

The hunter shrugged. "I was on vacation."

"In Alaska?" Dean stared at him like he was crazy. And then he looked at him again like he was far past that. "With Rufus?"

Sam broke the exchange up with a rather forceful clearing of his throat. "Can we focus? We need to wake Dad up, and if African Dream Root's the way to go…" He raised his hands out in exasperation.

"Come on, it's in the study," Bobby huffed, turning and heading out of the panic room and up the basement stairs with the boys right behind.

-o-o-o-

They went for Bobby's spell component cabinet right off the bat. It was a haphazard nightstand of a thing, partially leaning to the side due to a busted leg from years before. Actually, he wasn't convinced he hadn't bought it that way. The poor, ailing cabinet was shoved between two bookshelves, partially to keep it upright, despite the way it wobbled anytime you pulled open the squeaky door, and partially because he'd had to move it to the other side of the room after a particularly bad night when he mixed it up with the alcohol cabinet while on one hell of a bender. He kept nightshade in there, for Pete's sake.

Since then, it had been located as far away as possible from the equally wobbly liquor cabinet.

When they didn't find any Dream Root, the three divided up and started searching the rest of the study. The old hunter was fairly certain he had a leftover store from the last Baku. But that had been ages ago, and while it was surely in the house, there was no limit to the nooks and crannies available for hiding or misplacing things.

As they searched, Sam questioned Bobby on the last time he'd faced a Baku so they'd know what they were headed in for.

"How'd you deal with the last one? I couldn't find anything solid about killing them," the younger brother was pulling books off the shelves in consecutive order, carefully replacing them once they'd checked behind the tomes. He'd found all sorts of interesting things, including several other rare spell ingredients. Being the neat, organized person he was, he pulled them out and placed them in a pile to go back into the spell cabinet.

Dean was doing no such thing, and grinned widely at his brother when Bobby grumbled that now he'd never be able to find anything with Sam moving 'em all around.

"We didn't," Bobby answered, and found both boys looking at him questioningly. "Far as Rufus and I could figure, you can't kill a Baku. They're damn near impossible to pin down, mostly 'cuz they don't got bodies on this plane."

The two Winchesters exchanged a look, and Dean seemed to lose whatever silent battle they were waging. "Then what did you do?"

The older hunter leveled a 'watch it, boy' look at slight accusation in his tone. "Scared it off, which is about as good as you can do. They don't care much for bright light or loud sounds."

That sounded familiar, and Sam straightened at the revelation. "Fireworks."

Dean shot him a look. "What?"

"There's some speculation, granted it's sketchy at best, that the Baku was born from a Chinese legend and isn't Japanese at all." Sam crossed the room to pull out one of Bobby's less-worn books and he started flipping through it. "I read a story about a beast that always attacked villages on the New Year, that they think may have been the first siting of a Baku before they became well known in Japan."

The kid tossed the book on the desk between them, and the other two leaned in to read the page.

"The Nian Shao was said to attack children. A village sage eventually purified it and convinced it to eat only evil." Sam shrugged as he tapped the illustration of a creature formed together from bits and pieces of other animals. It sure has hell looked like a Baku. "Before that, the villagers were able to chase it off using fireworks. Hence their traditional usage on the Chinese New Year."

"Huh." Dean looked up at Bobby, who gave a shrug. "So…Any ideas on how to get fireworks into Dad's head?"

-o-o-o-

Turned out, the last of Bobby's African Dream Root supply was in the back of a desk drawer in a small glass jar. And there was barely any of it left.

"That's not enough to send all of us in," Bobby grumbled, pulling out one of the several books he had on African Dream Root preparation. He vaguely recalled how disgusting the drink had turned out in Alaska, and thought maybe he'd try adding some honey this time. They'd need some of John's hair as well. "Don't know if it's enough for both o' you, either."

"I'll go in," Dean announced with a firm nod and a tone they all knew well. It was one he picked right up from John and, just like the marine, it booked no argument.

Not that that ever stopped a Winchester.

"Not without me," Sam argued right back. "I'm the one who's been having visions of the Baku, Dean. I should go."

The older Winchester was silent for a moment, staring hard at his brother in a way that was more contemplative than pissed. Sam law-trained mind was already rallying all the reasons why he should join his brother, and preparing counter-arguments for all of Dean's, when the older hunter gave a firm nod.

"Alright."

Shocked silence reigned in the house, though Dean didn't seem to notice. Instead, he was moving into the kitchen, grabbing honey out of the cabinet and putting the kettle on. Bobby glanced at Sam, who was staring at him with wide, flabbergasted eyes. The old hunter had nothing, and shrugged helplessly.

"Alright?" Sam parroted as the two filed into the kitchen as well, staring at the back of the man they hardly recognized at the moment. Dean didn't notice, liberally coating a mug with honey. Then, recalling exactly how gross the root was they were about to boil and drink, coated it again with even more honey.

When he turned back around, he held it out to Bobby, who stared at it and then the hunter. With a 'what else we gonna do' look at Sam, he dropped the handful of dried twigs into it. Dean added a few hairs he'd snagged off their dad on the way out of the panic room. Then he handed the whole thing to his brother. All that was left was the water to boil.

Sam stared at him, still shocked. Dean finally seemed to notice the silence.

"You're right, Sammy, you should be the one to go. Just…bring him back."

Sam was still staring.

"What?"

He opened his mouth, then glanced at Bobby, and then just finally blew out a huff of air. "We go in together."

Dean pulled a face. "There isn't enough for both of us."

Sam glanced at Bobby for confirmation, and the hunter rolled his shoulder. "There's enough, but it won't last long."

The older of the two was already opening his mouth to argue. Again, how weird was it that Dean was defending letting his kid brother go off without him? Who was this guy, and what had happened to his ridiculously over protective, distrustful brother? The ping-pong game of personality switching was dizzying at best. Not to mention deeply worrying and confusing as hell.

Sam cut him off before he could get started. "It'll be enough."

The kettle started whistling, and he reached over to turn it off. He poured the water quickly and handed his big brother back the mug. "Wherever dad is, it's big. Cave, remember? We'll have more luck with two of us searching."

Now it was the older Winchester's turn to glance between the two with narrowed eyes. He had a feeling he just missed something and, deciding that it was most likely a chick moment, dropped it faster than a hot potato.

Instead, he turned to Bobby. "Think you can rustle up some more, if this isn't enough?"

The old hunter looked particularly imposed upon by the question. "What, you think Dream Root grows on trees?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam was definitely shaking his head and making a subtle kill motion with his hand. Right, rhetorical. 'Root' was in the title.

Instead, he started through a mental list of people nearby that might have a stash lying around, or access to one.

"What about Garth?" he asked, checking off hunters in his head that were less than a day away. Dream Root wasn't an easy thing to find, he remembered. The Men of Letters had a supply, but that wasn't going to help them here. And he knew Bela was still alive in 2006 and could get her hands on almost anything they needed, but fuck that option. She'd stolen the Colt the last time they'd reached out to her for that particular ingredient.

Changes or not, he was not tempting Time and/or Fate by introducing her and the gun into the exact same scenario twice.

Garth could have some or know a hunter with some, and he was only a couple hours away from Sioux Falls.

"What is it?" Sam's worried voice brought Dean back from his thoughts and clued him in that something was wrong. Bobby was looking between the two of them, eyes wide.

"You boys haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Garth's dead."

Sam's face fell even as Dean's body went rigid.

"That's not possible."

Bobby shrugged helplessly at Dean's adamant refusal, shoulders weighted with grief. "I got the call yesterday. Something attacked him in his own home; his mom found him."

The three held a silent moment in respect and grief and shock. Well, two hunters held the silence. Dean was shaking his head, mind spinning. That wasn't possible. Garth was still alive in 2016; sure he was a werewolf but he was an alive werewolf. Dean hadn't changed anything that would affect anyone else! And especially not Garth. Kid hadn't even been a part of the apocalypse.

"It's. Not. Possible," he repeated firmly, fist clenching by his side as he dared Bobby to challenge it. Because he knew it wasn't possible. Nothing had happened to bring the young hunter into the fold earlier this time around. He probably just tripped and shot himself in the foot, ended up unconscious in a ditch, and would turn up in three days with everyone thinking he'd gotten himself killed. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Look, he was a good kid. Nobody saying he wasn't," Bobby took off his cap in respect and ran a hand through his hair again. "But as far as hunters went…"

He shrugged and no one in the room could deny that they had all suspected Garth would get himself killed on a hunt somewhere down the line.

Only he hadn't.

Nothing had changed.

Except….

Cold flooded Dean like a bucket of ice water in the middle of the Arctic. In a flurry of movement that had both brother and father figure staring at him worriedly, he dug into his back pocket and pull out wrinkled, worn sheets of paper along with his cell. Even as he started scrolling through contacts, he flipped through the pages in his hands.

Sam couldn't read whatever it was written on them, but the stains and worn corners suggested his brother had been holding onto them for a while now. Dean stopped on one page, eyes roving over the scribbles again and again.

"Fuck!" He shoved the notes back into his pocket and devoted almost frenzied attention to his phone.

"Dean, what's going on?"

"Meg." That was the only answer Dean gave as he pressed a button on his phone and pressed it up to his ear, tapping his knuckles in a rapid beat on the back of the kitchen chair. Sam's eyes widened at the name, and Bobby looked at him for explanation. He hadn't gotten further than 'demon' when a click signaled someone had answered down the line.

"Caleb, listen to me-"

"Dean Winchester."

Dean froze, body going rigid as he slowly straightened. He turned sharply to Sam and Bobby. Green eyes darted over his brother's face even as his expression fell into something dark. Something bloody. Dean didn't recognize the female voice filtering through the phone, but he knew the tone. He could hear the smirk.

"Meg. You son of a bitch."

"You started a war, Dean. And war has casualties." He heard Caleb protest bravely down the line, silenced quickly with a pained grunt. Dean's eyes slid closed against the knowledge of what came next: what he had no way of stopping. "I want to know who you're getting your information from."

Dean didn't answer, but the phone shook dangerously in his hand and he knew he was close to breaking it. He didn't know what to say that to save Caleb's life. Because he already knew nothing would. Damn it, he had known Meg would go after their friends for the Colt. He'd written the damn thing down so he wouldn't forget. Why hadn't he called Pastor Jim and Caleb the second he'd gotten that damn gun?

Not that it would have saved Garth.

Because Meg had targeted John's friends last time. But John wasn't the one with the Colt right now.

"Fine."

He stiffened and yelled down the line, "No, don't!"

Caleb shouted out, but the sound was quickly swallowed in gurgling and Dean ran a hand viciously over his scalp, tugging at the roots of his hair as he listened to his friend die again. His eyes darted frantically around Bobby's kitchen and took in nothing. His jaw ached from how tightly he clenched his teeth and the device pressed to his ear gave an ominous crack as the plastic along the side finally gave.

"I am going to kill you, you hear me!" he spat into the phone, but Meg only laughed. There was a soft thud down the line as Caleb's body hit the floor.

"Come and get me, Dean. In the meantime, I'm going to gut each and every one of your friends. Anyone you've ever cared about, anyone you've ever saved. You'll get to listen to them choke on their own blood, unless you tell me who is helping you and give me the damn Colt!"

Dean met his brother's eyes, searching through the pain and grief. He and Bobby stood, looking equally lost and angry, but with nothing to channel that into. "Alright."

"What was that?"

"I said alright," he growled dangerously. He ran another hand through his hair again, mind racing. "But I need a day."

Her high-pitched laugh grated on the next-to-nothing that was left of his nerves. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I'm nowhere near Caleb's, okay? I need time."

There was silence on the other end and Dean did his best to wait it out.

"I'll tell you what. I'll meet you at Bobby Singer's house." Dean glanced at the older hunter, who looked as on edge as Sam and ready for instruction. But there was nothing any of them could do in this situation. "If you get to him before me, the old man lives. But no more games, Dean. If you're not there, with the Colt…well. I don't think I have to tell you what happens."

He could still hear the echoes of Caleb choking on his own blood. Yeah, he got the gist.

"See you soon."

The hunter snapped the phone shut and it broke straight in two. With a furious howl he launched it across the room, shattering what was left of it against the wall to the study. Both Sam and Bobby were on him in a second, but he shook his head. They didn't have time for a chat.

"If we're saving Dad, we have to do it right now." He turned to Bobby. "Is the house still demon-proofed?"

Sam snapped his mouth closed in surprise at the shut down and change of topic. Bobby was answering before he had a chance to demand what the hell had just happened.

"Sure," the older hunter gave a thoughtful nod. "Could probably boost it up a bit, if we got the time."

"Don't." Dean grabbed the forgotten mug of Dream Root off the table. "Meg's on her way here, and I need you to take the warding down."

"What?" Bobby barked at the same time Sam demanded, "Dean?"

The younger Winchester took half a step forward, anger filling every line of his body but for his eyes, which held the loss of two friends. "She killed Caleb and Garth, and we're going to….what? Just let her in?"

"We," Dean gestured to his brother and then himself, "are going to save Dad. Bobby is going to set a trap for Meg."

-o-o-o-

The two brothers carried chairs from the kitchen and a mug of disgusting smelling yellow tea down to the basement and into the panic room. Caleb lived in Lincoln, Nebraska: a solid three hours away from Bobby's even if Meg broke all speed limits and killed any cop who pulled her over.

So they had three hours to get into John's head and pull him back out before they had to deal with her.

Bobby had been pretty clear about his opinion of this plan, but it wasn't like they had a long list of options. John couldn't last forever against the Baku. Eventually, he would tell the thing where he was, and then they'd have a real problem on their hands.

In the meantime, there was always the risk the damn creature was feeding on him. Lucky for John, he was a hunter, which meant an endless damn feast of nightmares to choose from. The sparse good stuff – his hopes and dreams and happy memories – should be safe for at least a while.

Bobby stood in the door to the panic room, watching the two brothers with no small amount of grump, and certainly a fair bit of concern. "Get in and get out quick, you hear?"

Sam nodded to their surrogate father even as the two settled in the chairs and prepared to rescue their biological one. He knocked back half the tea, gagging at the foul taste and handing it over to Dean to equally suffer through.

"Get the house ready," Dean said even as he finished off the dregs of the tea with a grimace. "We'll be back in time."

"Right." Bobby sounded less convinced, but they were out of time to argue as the two succumbed to the sleep drug. He stared at his three house guests drooling in his panic room, before he turned and headed back upstairs to prep for a damn demon waltzing into his house.

He was getting too old for this crap.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 19

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean woke to darkness.

Eternal, endless, empty.

Well duh, dumbass. Open your eyes.

He did, blinking several times before he realized that it was the same. Infinite black surrounded him, and it stretched on and on without change. There was solid ground beneath him. He tapped his fingertips against it as he stared up into nothingness. Smooth and hard, with no imperfections; an unnatural surface unlike anything he'd encountered before.

Surprisingly, his muscles didn't ache as he sat upwards and his bones didn't complain about the harsh solidity beneath him. Still, he could see nothing in the world but himself.

Dean wasn't much for the sciences, but he was pretty sure you needed light to see yourself. But there wasn't any, and there was his hand in front of his face, clear as day, sharply defined against a world of black. Look at that, there were even shadows stretched across the skin of his fingers. But if there was a source, he couldn't see it and it didn't touch anything else in this world.

Or there was nothing else to touch.

So this is it. He climbed to his feet and the shuffle of cloth and muted scuff of boots echoed around him. Amara won and this is life with the Darkness.

Dean was numbly alright with that. Which he shouldn't be, given he'd spent the last six months fighting with everything he was to change everything that would come.

Six months. The hunter looked around again, the first inklings of confusion and clarity warring with each other to fight through the numbness this blank world wrapped him in. I was in 2006 for six months.

Had it been a dream? Had all of it been a pleasant illusion crafted by Amara to keep him comfortable? It sounded like something she would do. He knew that joining her, dying, wouldn't hurt. That she would make it as painless as possible.

Only, it hadn't been painless, nor entirely pleasant. The last six months of struggling alone against Time and a plan written in stone had been, in a hell of a lot of ways, more painful than the first friggin' time around.

It was also a needlessly complicated illusion for Amara, who could have given him the bunker and Sam and Cas and he'd never have bothered waking up.

Alright, maybe Chuck then. 'Needlessly Complicated' was a friggin' tagline for his story-making paradigm.

If this wasn't some illusion suddenly cut short, he was out of ideas. It definitely wasn't heaven. He'd seen enough of that place to know. Same with Purgatory and Hell, loathe as he was to know those places equally well. So if he wasn't in the three big ones, this wasn't Amara, and God was probably involved…

Where the hell was he?

"Dean!"

The hunter spun at the new sound as it echoed around him. But there was no one. He couldn't tell if the blackness around him stretched ten feet or ten thousand.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

He turned more slowly this time. That was Sammy's voice calling out. If he was stuck in here too, maybe he'd have some answers. He was the smart one after all. "Sam?"

"Dean!"

The hunter turned and his brother was suddenly in front of him, despite having definitely not been there a second before. He stumbled back out of surprise, putting a couple feet between him and his kid brother. Jeez, what was this, a friggin' Fun House from Hell?

"What the hell, man?"

Sam was staring at him funny, brown eyes blown wide before they squinted together under a furled brow. His gaze dragged down slowly, then back up. Dean stared at him expectantly, but when his brother didn't answer he gave him an irritated look.

"Dude, my eyes are up here."

Sam immediately scoffed, rolling his eyes. Though he partially turned away, his gaze kept darting back to his brother, like he couldn't help it. Dean watched him through narrowed eyes, getting more than a little testy.

"What, I got something on my face?"

Sam dared hold his gaze a little longer before he finally turned away from his brother to survey the landscape, or lack thereof, surrounding them. "Let's just find dad."

Dean blinked. "Dad?"

The hesitancy in Sam's movements and the slight surprise on his face as he turned back to Dean triggered something in the older hunter. Dad. Dad was alive.

Dad was alive and….with the Darkness?

"We took the Dream Root, remember?" Sam was staring at him full-on again, but the intrigue was replaced with confused worry as his brother seemed to have forgotten what they were doing here. Or where here was at all. "We're in Dad's head; we need to find him."

The man from the future blinked and it all slid back into place. This was a dream. The last six months hadn't been a dream. But this was a dream.

He looked around at the emptiness and balked. "What the hell. This is nothing like the first time."

Sam blinked at him. "First time?"

"That we took Dream Root."

The worry and something else – something vaguely like Bitchface #12 – filtered across his brother's features. He was still staring.

"This is the first time, Dean."

The man from the future stood there, staring at his brother. "What?"

"I've never taken Dream Root before this." The younger Winchester watched him as his concern morphed into something tighter – more controlled. "When did you?"

The hunter slammed his mouth shut so hard there was an audible clack. What the hell. He looked away from his brother as he realized what he'd said, and that suddenly he was having a much harder time clamping down the thoughts filtering through his mind. Specifically the last time they'd taken the root and swam around Bobby's head. Something that hadn't happened yet, and wouldn't for another several years.

It was like he had no ability to stop thinking about it. Worse, he wanted to blurt all of it out. With a hand slapped over his mouth, he immediately slammed a wall around everything labeled 'future' in his mind.

Sam was still staring at him when he turned back. Yeah, maybe not his most subtle slip up, but crap all if he was gonna have another chat about this while inside John Winchester's head.

"Let's go find Dad. We're on a time limit, right?"

"And he's back," Sam muttered under his breath, but it echoed in the cavernous emptiness around them. Dean gave him a funny look, but the younger Winchester just gestured ahead with his hand, and the two started through the emptiness in search of their father.

-o-o-o-

They'd only been walking for about five minutes when Dean really started looking around. After having made it through Bobby's nightmare of a head the first time they took Dream Root, he'd expected something pretty different than what they were seeing. The old house, old hunts, Mom maybe. Nightmares, or even dreams. But not….nothing.

"What the hell," he finally groused, throwing his arms out. "Why is dad's head…empty?"

Sam cast a cursory glance at their surroundings, but seemed less bothered by them. "He's hiding. Look around: no clues, no visuals. Nothing to show where he was before he went to sleep."

Dean glanced around again before giving his brother a glance. Sam shrugged. "He knew he was being hunted, that something was looking for him."

The older hunter let out a whistle. "Damn. Talk about control. Gotta hand it to the man."

His brother huffed a laugh. "Yeah, but how are we going to find him?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, spinning in a slow circle again. "Well, he's gotta be in here somewhere, right?" He surveyed the darkness around them, trying to think like John.

Beside him, Sam shrugged. "It's his head, so I'd assume so."

His older brother paused, almost tripping over his own feet as he looked at Sam. "It's his head," he repeated. Sam nodded, though he wasn't sure what revelation his brother had stumbled over. "This is John Winchester's head."

Again, his brother nodded, but had no clue where Dean was going with it.

"Dad's a hunter," he emphasized. "Sammy, he's hunting this thing as sure as it's hunting him."

Sam's eyes grew wider with understanding and he glanced around again. Right, like their Dad would take hiding laying down.

"Okay…but how does that help us find him?" The taller man straightened as it clicked and he fell in sync with his brother's plan. He sucked in a breath as he answered his own question, "We don't. We get the Baku to come to us."

"And Dad will follow." Dean was grinning. "Now….how do we get Chinese Frankenstein to play ball?"

Sam opened his mouth to fix his brother's grossly incorrect analogy, but dropped the subject when the answer to his question popped into his mind instead. "We populate the dream."

Green eyes looked to him beneath raised eyebrows. "What?"

"Bakus feed on dreams and nightmares. We need to give him something to eat." Sam closed his eyes, thinking hard. Even as Dean opened his mouth to ask how the hell they were supposed to do that, a soft voice broke the echoing darkness.

"Sam." The call, light with a smile and endless love, turned both brother's attention to the woman standing just behind them. She had a smurf's sleep shirt on and a pair of boxers she'd stolen from Sam one night and never given back. A small smile spread across flawless skin, dotted with freckles and marks Sam had spent more than a few nights memorizing as she slept beside him.

"Jess," he breathed out. Warmth filled his incorporeal body and the world around them suddenly exploded in color. Light pushed away the darkness in swirls of blue and white, wrapping around Jess and stretching away from the boys for a dozen feet or so. Dean traced the explosion of light and color to its edges, where it danced almost playfully with the jagged edges of the darkness that took on a smoke like appearance now that it had something to contrast against.

Damn, is this what being in his brother's head was like?

He looked back at Jess as the two college kids stood there smiling at each other like the dorks they both were. Dean finally cleared his throat, starting to feel awkward. Sam startled, looking over to him.

"Dude," he admonished, shooing him with his hand, "start bringing stuff in."

The older hunter stared at his brother like he was slightly crazy. As if he spent his evenings practicing dream summoning. Right.

Sam rolled his eyes. "What do you usually dream about?"

The question was one Dean knew he shouldn't contemplate the answer to. As immediately as Sam asked it, Dean tried to slam a mental hand down on the response his mind readily jumped to. But like telling someone not to think of pink elephants, there was no way he could catch his thoughts before they formed.

And it wasn't pink elephants that danced across the surface of his mind.

"Hey." The voice was soft and painfully, heart-achingly familiar. "You gonna sit down?"

Dean turned around to face Lisa Braeden, sitting on a picnic blanket spread over the colorless ground. She smiled up at him, a wine glass in hand, like she had years ago – years from now – in Bobby's head.

"Hi." He all but stumbled over the word even as his chest swelled. Green splashed out from the blanket, splattering the black like freshly spilled paint. It didn't completely banish the darkness like Sam and Jess had, instead the colors mixed and morphed until there were bright patches of green as fresh as grass and others deep and dark, writhing with pain and envy.

Dean didn't let it bother him. He knew this dream was as sad as it was happy.

"Dean!" A weight crashed into his legs and side, and he automatically brought his hand down to rest on Ben's head, wrapping the kid in a hug with his other arm. The boy was grinning up at him with the 100-watt Winchester grin, even if they both knew it wasn't his name. "You came back!"

"Yeah, kiddo," he croaked out, clearing his throat against the tightness there. His whole body thrummed with energy, but he valiantly ignored the swelling joy threatening to beat his heart right out of his chest.

When he looked down at the eleven year old boy wrapped around his waist, he nearly lost it. Fiery orange had spread out around them, pulsing with flickers of yellow that no darkness could possibly compete against and he knew, without a doubt, that this was his happiness.

A happiness he really couldn't watch a Baku devour. He had so little left, he was pretty sure it would be his undoing.

"Sorry, buddy," he whispered, squeezing Ben's shoulders in a half hug against his own body. "I love you, kiddo, but you're not real."

He closed his eyes against the flash of confusion and hurt in the kid's eyes, even as the weight against him disappeared like sand drifting on the wind. Lisa and the colors were gone when he opened his eyes. It was just Sam and Jess, standing in a sunburst of blues and whites. His brother was watching him, and though he clearly didn't know who the two people he just saw were, there was an understanding in his eyes that Dean wouldn't have expected from a Sam ten years younger than he knew.

Clearing his throat, Dean focused on not Lisa and not Ben, and instead watched as the dream populated with various people they'd saved on hunts, monsters they'd taken to the grave, even Bobby showed up, busy arguing with Rufus. The sight sparked a flare of warmth and amusement in him, but he absolutely refused to acknowledge the bursts of magenta and deep purple that pulsed beneath the older hunter and swirled outward. Too damn girly. He absolutely did not think pink when he thought about Bobby Singer.

He was gonna be lucky if he could look the man in the eye when they woke back up. Fucking dream walking, man.

The colors that spread from beneath the others he summoned were dimmed, dull and flickering like they weren't really sure they could take on the darkness they fought against. But Dean didn't feel like he'd be crushed and never recover if the Baku managed to gobble up a couple blotchy memories riddled with as much pain as goodness.

"Alright, that's outta be enough," he muttered and looked back to his brother, who was doing something similar. None of his brother's projections blasted radiant light and color quite like Jess did, and Dean was honestly happy he'd picked up on that.

He was pretty sure his brother didn't want to see friends or family feed a supernatural beasty any more than Dean wanted Lisa or Braeden served up for dessert.

"Do we just wait?" Sam's hand was in Jess's, but Dean got the feeling she would be gone before the action came down on their heads. Until then, he could practically see the warmth and purpose filling his brother and realized just how badly Sam had needed this, needed to see her, to be with her.

He wondered if the kid dreamt of Jess often. Or if he dreaded it, for the very reason that he'd once dreamt her death and it had almost come true. He wondered if Sam closed his eyes every night and prayed not to have visions of the woman he loved.

Something moved along the edges of the darkness, and both brothers tensed. Sam pushed Jess behind him protectively. The hunters scanned the edges of their projections, where the colors curled against the darkness that pushed and pulsed. They couldn't see the beast, as the Baku kept just enough in the edges of the blackness to remain concealed.

Sam thought he saw a flash of tusk and an amber eye as the thing circled them.

"Well, guess it worked," Dean muttered, right before his dream people closest to the edges of the darkness suddenly blurred. Parts of their incorporeal forms whisked away, like smoke drawn into a vacuum.

Dean let out a gasp, staggering a step forward. Although the dream projections were far away, the hunter felt the tug of their disappearance, the pull of the Baku as it fed on his memories. It pulled at his body and made his chest feel oddly tight. Heavy.

A bright, red light suddenly filled the space like a flare in the darkness of an ocean.

Thunder cracked across the space and Dean started, eyes shooting up to the firework bursting in a shower of red sparkles between them and the Baku. The projections of his dreams suddenly stilled, turning their gazes as one towards the burst of light, and a couple even oohed and awed at the show.

There was a hiss from the darkness and the tugging in his body released its hold as the Baku retreated from the bright light and thunderous explosion that followed. The edges of his projects settled back in place, dimmer than before but still present.

Sam grabbed at his shoulder to help study him, and Dean gave him the standard 'I'm okay' hunter's nod.

"Good news: firework theory was true," Sam huffed out, eyes straining on the darkness around them.

"Yay for us," Dean breathed out, straightening. He felt infinitely better now that parts of his mind weren't being forcefully torn from him. The Baku was still out there, pacing. They could hear the soft pad of his paws and the drag of his tail across the emptiness. This time, it would approach more carefully. "Hope you got some more of those ready."

Beside him, Sam stood grim but determined. They just had to hold out long enough for John to find them. Luckily, ammo came for free in dreamland.

"Alright," Dean kept turning a slow circle, eyes training for the next attack. "We got him here. What was step two?"

Sam huffed a laugh, fists clenching and wishing he was armed.

A weight fell into his hand, so suddenly that he would have dropped it if not for the comforting feel of the machete handle. Surprised, he lifted the long blade to his face, observing the razor edge and glint of unnatural light along steel.

"Huh." Sam raised his eyes at his brother, who shrugged and closed his eyes in an attempt to summon a weapon of his own.

Sam caught the flash of movement seconds before the Baku leapt from the darkness. "Dean, move!"

He dove for his brother, bodily tackling him across the side and taking both of them to the ground hard. The air drove from his lungs and he heard Dean groan beneath him. The younger hunter didn't waste any time, rolling over to the side and scrambling to his knees.

A gasp tore from his throat as something else, something not of the world he was used to, pulled at every inch of his body. He caught himself on his hands as pieces were tugged forcefully away from his very being. Through bleary eyes, he saw the Baku, sucking at the ground several dozen feet away. The colors were melting together like paint, bleeding away to leave darkness once more as they were consumed in the greedy vacuum the beast presented.

Gunfire ripped through the air, the bullet cracking in its release.

The Baku let out a high pitch yelp, turning and baring its teeth in a roar, trunk flailing. The feline body crouched defensively before bounding into the darkness once more.

Dean, sitting upright on the swirled floor, glared at the thing from the sight-line of his ivory-inlaid .45 caliber handgun gripped tightly in a rock-steady hand. So he wasn't a natural at manifesting shit in dreamland, but he pulled through when it counted.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam rubbed at his arms, relieved at the solidity of his body beneath his palms. The pull of the Baku's influence had made him feel as incorporeal as smoke, and for a moment he'd irrationally feared he would wisp away into nothingness.

"Yeah, I'm good. About that step two?"

The two hunters climbed to their feet. Dean glanced around them. Half the colors had disappeared, and what was left of their projections congregated around them almost nervously. They moved restlessly, and many of them were so dim they were hardly there at all.

Okay, so baiting the thing had worked. Now how the hell did they kill something that couldn't be killed before it ate them?

"Erm…." Dean glanced at the feeding fest they had offered up around them. Right, time for plan B. "Run."

They took off in a random direction, leaving their projections behind to fade out without their presence to sustain them.

When the wall slammed into existence right in front of them, Dean managed not to crash face first into it with the graceful flair of flying limbs and skidding feet. Beside him, Sam caught himself on the smooth tiles, slamming his full weight into the catch, but managing not to break his face on the very solid wall.

"What the hell?" The taller of the two glanced up the black and white wall only to find a stone ceiling above them. He spun around at the fully enclosed room they suddenly found themselves in. Tile walls and stone pillars surrounded them. A metal staircase led to a second story lined with iron-work railings.

Old machinery, looking like something out of a bad sci-fi film from the fifties lined the walls. Panels dotted with blinking lights and various meters filled half the available wall space, and Sam could see more equipment in the neighboring room. There was a table in the center of this room, lit from beneath the surface and lined with chairs. A couple notepads and books laid open on the surface, which looked like a world map.

"Is the Baku doing this?" he asked as he moved to the table cautiously. The rest of the room opened up into another, that one raised several steps higher and hosting shelves of books and wooden study tables, like a library. There were other hallways branching off of either room, and Sam was both relieved at the number of possible exists and concerned about the numerous entry points for the beast to attack them from. "I don't recognize this place."

"I do." Dean was staring at the achingly familiar details of the bunker and ignoring the homesickness that curled in his chest. Fucking dreamland. "The baku didn't do this. I think I did."

He'd wanted shelter and someplace safe to regroup. Guess he'd gotten a version of it, at least.

The younger of the two stared questioningly, but Dean shook his head. Instead, he moved for the hallway just off the stairwell that Sam had avoided due to it being tucked away in a far darker part of the room and perfect for an ambush from the Baku. "Come on, this place is a labyrinth. And it's well armed."

Sam followed after into a long hallway with square-arched intersections and high-tiled walls. All of the doors along the hallway they entered were closed and the couple that he tried were solidly locked. Nice, heavy wood structures all labeled with a number and a different set of symbols inlaid within a circle of gold. "What is this place?"

"It's a bunker," Dean answered tightly and Sam's head snapped forward to stare at his brother's back.

Like the bunker you didn't mean to talk about on the Wendigo hunt?

"It was built to ward off supernatural baddies. And it's got a shit-ton of information and supplies."

They hit the end of the corridor and made a left down a secondary hallway that looked exactly like the first. If it weren't for the different numbers on the doors, Sam would have guessed they'd just made an Escher-like loop, which seemed more than possible in dreamland. But the new hall led to a staircase that descended deeper into the bunker. Dean took it without hesitation and they were deposited into another identical hallway. Just how big was this place?

"Where is it?" Sam asked cautiously. Other than 'likely underground' due to a lack of windows, there weren't a lot of clues. North America if the map upstairs was any indication. Most likely the States, since his brother didn't own a passport. The architecture wasn't telling, other than it was old and probably built in the fifties, as the machines upstairs suggested.

He could tell this was an off limit topic, but it wasn't like Dean could pretend he wasn't seeing what he was seeing. It might be wrong to abuse the fact it was easier to pull information from his cagey brother in dreamland, but at this point he no longer cared.

They wasn't going to be much of their brotherhood left if Dean kept up the secrets.

"It's gone." Dean's voice was tight, and Sam wondered what had happened that had bound his nomadic brother so tightly to a place. He could hear the ache in his voice and the anger behind those clenched teeth.

He really hadn't thought so much could happen in four years. In fact, he was starting to suspect it had been a lot longer for one of them.

Dean pushed open one of the many doors they were passing, all similar enough outside of their number that Sam had long ago gotten lost. The younger hunter pulled up short at the sight of a full blown armory within.

"Is that a shooting range?"

His brother laughed, beckoning Sam into the room with a sweeping arc of his arm. "Welcome to the bat cave, Sammy."

The lights above them suddenly flickered, the high pitch buzzing of electricity filling the air. A gasp broke the good mood, and Dean pressed a hand to his chest as he staggered against the open door.

"Dean?" Sam went to steady to him, even as his brother regained his balance.

"It's here."

Sam glanced into the armory at the assortment of weapons, some he hadn't even seen before. He gave a stoic nod. "Then let's figure out how to kill the damn thing."

An idea lit up his mind like a lightbulb and his eyes flashed at the memory of those walls lined with books. Dean was already moving into the room to gather up several blades and a gun that was nothing short of an elephant rifle.

"Dean, you said this place had information. Does it have books on supernatural creatures?"

His brother looked at him like he was crazy for a moment, before he caught on. It was almost comical to watch his face morph from confusion, to understanding, to optimism, and finally settling on the misery as the realization of what his brother's question entailed finally hit.

"We're being hunted by a dream eater in dad's head, and you want to read a book?"

Sam shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips despite the rather dire situation and the ticking countdown on this little mission of theirs. "We don't know how to kill it, and we've got to do that before we can rescue dad. So…"

"Ugh, fine!" Dean put the grenade launcher back on its designated shelf with more than a little disappointment (and Sam did a double take at the friggin grenade launcher)Instead, he grabbed two blades and a gun, tossing them to his brother who caught them expertly and tucked them into his waistline and boot top. "But you're doing the reading. I'm the lookout."

The younger hunter laughed as they headed back up the staircase and long hallway of rooms. Dean stumbled several times, each in tune with the flicker of lights. The last one accompanied a tremor that ran along the walls and shook dust from the ceiling.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to give him so much to feed on?" Sam whispered as they made it back into the first room, with the black and white tiles and iron-laid staircase.

"At least it's not chewing on us," Dean grumbled back, though he knew it wasn't completely true. Luckily, he had plenty of nightmares to throw at the thing to keep it busy.

As if on cue, the sconces around them flickered and then shut off completely. Dean lost his balance at a particularly harsh tug and caught himself on the wall. Emergency red light filled the bunker, painting it with the sickening color of danger and bad news. Unpleasant memories always came with that light.

"Dean?" Sam scanned the room around them for danger as he stood protectively in front of his unsteady brother. He drew up short when he spotted something new in the adjoining room. A body, unmoving on the floor that hadn't been there before. "Dean!"

Leaving his older brother, he took off up the stairs and slid to a halt at the still form sprawled on the ground beside the long wooden table. Male. Young. Dressed in jeans, a white shirt and tan button up. No obvious wounds or blood. Fingers searched for a pulse before he turned the cold, lifeless body over.

He was just a kid, a couple years younger than Sam. Dark hair, Asian descent, and his eyes….

Sam bit back the bile that threatened to choke him, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he stared at the blown out holes that had once been the kid's eyes.

"Kevin…" Sam turned to his brother, standing at the top of the steps as he stared at the body with the eyes of someone who was seeing a ghost. A ghost whose death had been his fault, if the guilt eating at his expression was anything to go by.

"Dean?" Sam stood, taking a step back from the corpse and towards his clearly shaken brother. "It's the Baku. He's fueling your nightmare, giving himself more to eat. Fight it, Dean."

There was a crash in the room to their left and Sam drew his gun, eye trained on any movement. The sound of books hitting the ground in a clatter broke the tense silence a second time. The smell of gasoline was suddenly overwhelming in the windowless room and Sam gagged, pulling up his shirt to cover his nose even as he kept his weapon trained on the next room. He could hear desperate, gasping breaths coming from the room. Someone was injured, pretty gravely going by the wet gurgle of each breath.

He took a step towards the entrance, side stepping Kevin's body. Dean's wrist closed tightly around his, and Sam turned to him in surprise. He hadn't heard him move. In the red light, his brother's skin looked pale and sallow.

"Don't."

The younger of the two glanced at the room again, at the sound of those slow, wet breaths. He wondered if it was his brother lying in that room, struggling through what was probably a collapsed lung and gasoline fumes.

"Dean, we need those books." He twisted his wrist within his brother's grip so he could clamp his own hand around Dean's forearm. "Fight it."

The hunter took a shaky breath under his brother's challenging gaze, but ended up nodding hastily and closing his eyes. His face evened out in concentration, and the red lights suddenly shut off, switching almost seamlessly back to yellow-white. When he opened his eyes, Kevin's body was gone, and so was the smell of gasoline.

"Okay." Sam released his arm and started for the library. "Let's gank this thing."

Dean still tensed as he entered the room behind his brother. But the books were all tucked away in their proper shelves. The Stynes didn't litter the floor. And a beaten, broken Cas was nowhere to be seen.

He let out a shaky breath. Time to pull it together; they had a job to do.

Sam was pulling out books in rapid succession, scanning along the tombs. Dean left him to it. Even with more familiarity of the bunker than Sam, the kid could be blind and still better at research than he would ever be. Instead, Dean took up his post as watchdog, rifle raised and patrolling the three entrances that led to the library.

Movement to his left caught his eye and he trained in on the small doorway that led back to the dorms. He lifted the gun, trained on the dark corners of the hallway just past the stonework. Sam glanced up from the books, but ducked his head back down and doubled his scanning speed in case they were out of time.

Dean stepped slowly towards the hall, moving around the furniture and pillars with the ease of someone achingly familiar with his surroundings. He hadn't meant to summon the bunker around them, but he wasn't unhappy to see it. This was home turf, and he knew every nook and cranny of the incredibly well-armed labyrinth. No dream walker was taking him down in his own sanctuary.

The hunter whipped around the corner, gun raised only to find an empty hallway.

The click of a hammer cocking and the cold metal of a muzzle pressing to the base of his skull drew him up short. His fingers tightened around the trigger of his own gun, but the person behind him pressed harder into the back of his neck.

Since when did Baku carry guns, or was this another nightmare projection?

"Drop it."

He probably shouldn't have turned around. He probably should have done what the person demanded. In fact, he was lucky he didn't get a bullet in the face for such a stupid move. But he couldn't help it, surprise at the very familiar voice caused his body to turn before thought or survival instinct could stop him.

"Dad?"

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 20

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Dean stared at the face of his father down the barrel of a Colt M1911A1.  John looked the same as the last time he had seen him alive, leaning over him in the hospital bed in Sioux Falls.  Greying.  Maybe a little tired around the eyes.  But very much alive, full of vitality and near-righteous anger.

“I said drop it.”

“Dad, it’s me.”  Dean didn’t drop the rifle, but he did hold it clearly out to the side.  It was no longer a threat to John, but he wasn’t letting it go when the Baku could be nearby.

“Yeah, it always is.”  His father’s finger tightened on the trigger and Dean had time to wonder what a bullet through the brain in dreamland would do to his real self before the gun fired with an explosive crack that damn near blew out his ear drums.

The bullet slammed into the stonework over his shoulder as Sam slammed into his father with the entire weight of his body and the velocity of a full-tilt run.  The two went down hard.  Dean dropped the rifle to draw his handgun as his family grappled on the floor.  John had intended to kill him – or what he likely thought was the demon’s illusion of him.  Which meant he would be just as willing to kill Sam.

While Sammy was a hell of a hunter and more than proficient at hand-to-hand combat, no one got the upper hand on John Winchester easily.

John pinned Sam to the floor, straddling his chest.  He had relinquished the gun during the scuffle in exchange for his Muela Bowie knife, which he pressed against Sam’s throat in a backhanded grip.  The kid grasped at his father’s wrist, using his forearm to leverage the blade as far from his skin as he could in a losing fight.

Dean didn’t hesitate to press his gun to the back of his father’s head.

“Drop it.” He said in a parody of John’s own command.

The hunter tilted his head sharply to the side, eyeing his oldest boy and the weapon that stayed flush against his skull with his every movement.  Good boy.  He’d almost be proud if Dean wasn’t just a construct of his mind.

Green eyes narrowed when the blade remained against his brother’s neck.  “You gonna kill your own son?”

The words were spat, hurtful and angry and bitter, in a way that made John’s heart ache.  They only further proved to him that this was a dream of the demon’s cruel design.  His Dean – the real Dean – couldn’t know that these days his darkest thoughts, his worst nightmares, were about having to take the life of his youngest boy with his own hands.

“You’re not my sons,” he bit out as he kept his eyes on the Dean and his blade pressed to Sam’s throat.

“Yes.  We are.”

“We- We took African Dream Root,” Sammy gasped out, straining against his father’s strength.  “Bobby called us.”

John glanced down at his youngest, the first inkling of possibility filtering in.  This was the first time a dream construct had suggested where he was, rather than asked.  But no.  The demon was clever, and anything he could come up with could be used against him here, including spell components and an old friend.

“Good try, but I’m not falling for it.” 

He moved to swipe the blade across his son’s throat when Dean’s arm encircled his neck from behind, pulling back his head to expose his throat.  The muzzle of his gun jammed under his jaw as his son caught him in a headlock.

“I will risk killing you before I risk you killing him,” Dean snarled and John’s eyes darted up into the murderous face of his oldest son.

“Dean!”

Confusion curled across the firing neurons in his brain.  If this was a construct of his mind, it was off.  It might look just like him, but that wasn’t his Dean, that wasn’t his good soldier and oldest son.  So who – or what – was it?

“Prove it.”  He didn’t lift the blade from Sam’s throat, though he knew he no longer had the leverage at this angle to use it against his younger boy’s strength.  “If you’re my son and we’re in my head, prove it.”

Dean growled low in his throat at the near impossible request.  What kind of solution was that?  Anything John already knew, a dream walker could just as easily answer.  So Dean couldn’t prove he was real that way.  Anything he came up with that John didn’t know would be written off as a lie if their stubborn-ass dad didn’t like it as the truth.

How the hell was he supposed to come up with something John Winchester would believe, but didn’t already know about?

An idea popped into his mind before he was done internally ranting about how unlikely he was to ever think up something useable and why did his dad have to be such a paranoid, heartless bastard who didn’t even flinch at the prospect of taking out his own son, real or not.

Dean tossed the daddy issues to the side, tapping his finger against the side of the gun as he swallowed around the lump in his throat.  Damn it.  Threatening to kill his father had been easier than confessing something he knew would disappoint the man.

“That time you left me at the boy’s home in upstate New York, after I got caught stealing food.”   Despite the lump in his throat and the telling burn behind his eyeballs, Dean didn’t dare take his gaze off his father for a second, despite every emotional instinct to do so.  The ex-marine would only need half of that to get the upper hand, and they were lucky he hadn’t killed them the first chance he had.  “I didn’t want to leave.  It was the best damn two months of my life.  And when you came and got me-”

He choked past the emotion that clogged his throat at the memory.  Of Sonny telling him he could stay, being the father he’d never really had, offering the life he hadn’t thought he needed.

“I didn’t want to go with you.”  Dean’s hand tightened on the gun, his palm sweaty against the warm metal.  John just stared at him, unblinking in the face of his oldest son.  “I never told you because it wouldn’t have mattered.  You’d have hauled my ass out of there either way.  So I left with you and Sammy.”

On the floor, Sam stared past his father with wide eyes.  He remembered Dean disappearing for a couple months back when they were kids.  Lost on a hunt, they’d told him.  He’d had no idea his older brother had spent the time safe in a home.  Apparently, a home he’d liked better than his nomadic life.

If it wasn’t so eye-opening and if the pain in his brother’s eyes wasn’t so real, he’d be giving Dean shit for harking on him all the times he’d ran away or expressed his disinterest in the life.  He had always assumed Dean didn’t understand – could never understand – and yet here he was.  He understood perfectly, he was just able to tuck it all away like it hadn’t happened and didn’t matter.

The knife slowly pulled away from his throat as John, still staring at his eldest son, relaxed the his murderous stance.  Dean kept the gun trained on him as the hunter climbed to his feet and stepped away from the youngest Winchester.

Sam rolled to the side and clambered to his feet to stand beside his brother.  Only then did Dean lower his gun and release the hammer.

John stared at his boys and let himself believe it could be them, there in his head to stave off the demon.  His boys, who he hadn’t seen since Lawrence, and who he hadn’t properly seen for almost a year now.

He reached forward, wrapped his arms around the both of them and tugged them to his side.

Dean stiffened under his touch – another oddity that kept John just ever so slightly on edge.  But Sam wrapped an arm around him willingly, and soon enough Dean did as well.

“What are you boys doing here?” The soldier asked as he pulled away, father-mode tucked away and game face on.

Sam was blinking away watery eyes as their search for their dad finally came to an end.  John didn’t make mention of that, for which he was thankful.  He really didn’t want to start this reunion off with more of a fight than the standoff already had been.  “You weren’t waking up, so we had to come get you.”

“It’s not the demon, Dad,” Dean added, looking uncomfortably caught between emotion and aloofness.  Well, at least that was still true to the Dean he knew.  “It’s a Baku.  Yellow Eyes is using it to track you.”

John frowned, his naturally-inclined hunter’s brain rapidly adapting the new information.  As loathe as he was to admit he had been wrong, the boys’ theory made more sense, and things that hadn’t fit before fell into place.  Like how persistent and all-encompassing the dreams had been.

“Shit,” he finally groused.  “Guess that explains why the panic room didn’t work.”

“We’ve got to figure out how to break its hold on you.”  Sam picked up Dean’s abandoned rifle, handing it back to his brother.  “We were looking for a way to do that when you showed up.”

John followed his youngest as he moved over to a table full of books.  He chanced a glance around.  He hadn’t cared much for his surroundings before other than to keep a constant eye out for danger.  But he didn’t recognize this place, and figured it must be one of his boys generating it.  “What is this, anyway?”

“Uh…” Sam glanced at Dean, then back to their dad.  “It’s a library…of sorts.”

John flipped open the cover of a book atop the nearest stack with a non-committal noise.  Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, who subtly shook his head with a grateful look.

“How long do you boys have before the root wears off?”

John closed the book and went back to scanning their surroundings.  Beside him, Dean fell in step and re-checked the integrity of the rifle in his hands, given that he had dropped it rather hastily.  A jam in their line of work could get you killed.

“It’s hard to say.”  Sam sent another glance at his brother, who was being oddly quiet in the presence of their father.  Dean usually chomped at the bit to offer information and suggestions to John.  Anything to impress or please the man.  “Time isn’t easy to keep track of down here.  Probably not much longer: an hour at most.”

The walls started to tremble again, and all three hunters’ heads shot up at the disturbance.  Dean met his brother’s gaze but shook his head.  It wasn’t the Baku; it wasn’t feeding on him.

Tiles started to rattle on the walls and fall to the floor as the shaking worsened.

“Okay, times up.”  Dean cocked the rifle even as Sam slammed shut the book he was holding and grabbed two more.  “Let’s move!”

The three hunters took off across the trembling floor as the walls began to collapse in on themselves.  The lights fell from the deteriorating ceiling, crashing to the ground and creating a dangerous game of Frogger for the three men.

“Where do we go?” Sam yelled even as Dean overtook their father for the lead.  He headed back to the black and white tiled room with the table map, and booked it straight for the metal staircase leading to the second story.

Given that this was Dean’s construct, Sam followed without question.  Luckily, so did John. 

Dean made it to the second floor, scrambling through a short hallway that quickly ended at a heavy metal door Sam hadn’t seen from below.  His older brother was pulling at a large lever and Sam slammed into the door, grabbing at the mechanism and heaving with his brother.  Together, with a grunt, they managed to slide it up and over the locking mechanism.

Ceiling rained down around them.  They were out of time.  John grabbed both boys by the bicep and hurled himself and his sons through the door.

-o-o-o-

Sam landed hard and groaned at the multiple, painful points of pressure along his body from the uneven, pokey surface he had landed on.

“Get off me, you’re friggin’ heavy.”  

The youngest Winchester rolled with a groan, sliding off of his brother who struggled up with a gasp of air now that all two hundred and twenty pounds of moose brother wasn’t compressing his rib cage and diaphragm.

“Don’t be a baby,” Sam groused, rolling to his knees and climbing to his feet from there.  He offered Dean a hand, which is brother took with a mock glare.

“Where are we?” He muttered instead, dusting off his jeans and glancing around. 

“Home.” 

The two boys turned to their father, who was standing a few feet away, looking as if he hadn’t taken a dive with them moments before.  The older hunter was staring at the quaint house around them.  The white walls, tinted blue in the moonlight filtering through the kitchen just behind them.  The wooden staircase near the front door, inlaid glass showing the quiet yard and no sign of damage from the ax Dean had taken to it a month ago.

“This is Jenny’s house,” Sam realized as he turned around, inspecting the surroundings.  Jenny and her children were nowhere to be seen, nor was any evidence that they had lived in this rendition of their childhood home.  The furniture and arrangement was unfamiliar to him.  The child’s drawing on the fridge and the pictures held by magnets were too far to identify, but Sam didn’t recognize any of them as the pictures Sari had been drawing.

“No, Sammy.”  John was staring at him with a mix of emotions darting across his face.  “This is our house.”

“Uh…right.  I know.”  Sam shrugged one shoulder.  “The woman that lives there now is named Jenny.  We were there a couple months ago.  There was a poltergeist….”

He trailed off uncertainly, suddenly feeling both awkward and irritated at his own explanation.  John would have known all this if he ever checked his messages or showed up when his sons needed him.

“We called you,” he ended up adding defensively, and with no little amount of hurt in his voice. 

“Shit,” Dean swore, breaking up the possible fight before it could begin, as well as any sentimental reunion, however unlikely one was in this family.  He patted down his jacket and waistline.  “The weapons are gone.”

Sam searched the floor for the books he’d grabbed on Asian lore and mythological beasts.  Neither were in sight, and he knew he’d made it through the bunker door with them.

“Can you make more?” he found himself asking his brother, even though Dean already had his eyes closed in concentration, trying to do just that.

Green eyes opened, filled with annoyance.  “Not working for me.”

“Maybe because it’s not your dream?”  Sam turned to face John.  The house they were in was clue enough as to whose construct this was and whose nightmare the Baku had pulled from.

Their dad looked between the two of them for a moment, before he gave a ‘what the hell’ shrug and closed his eyes.  After a moment of nothing, he opened one, then followed with the other.  No such luck.

“The Baku must have taken back control,” Dean muttered, making the entire thing sound like one long curse. 

“That can’t be good.” 

The words weren’t even out of Sam’s mouth before light sprung into existence around them, orange and hot and flickering.  Crackles broke the air and smoke hung heavy in the room that had been clear seconds ago.  Dean swore as he stumbled back from the walls suddenly engulfed in hot, angry flames.  Sam grabbed at his shoulder in an effort to pull him back and steady him all in one.  Beside them, John’s military-trained instincts kicked in and he sought the nearest exit among the fire.

The front door was blocked by the growing flames, as was the kitchen.  That only left upstairs.  Of course.

He grabbed his boys and hollered for them to make it to the second story.  Sammy’s old nursery was above the garage.  They’d be able to climb onto the roof from his window and hopefully jump to the ground, assuming the fire hadn’t consumed too much of that part of the house.

Dean led the charge, scrambling up the stairs even as flames licked at the railings as the fire climbed higher.  He knew what he would see when he made it to Sam’s old room, so he didn’t look up and he didn’t stop moving.

But his brother did. 

John slammed bodily into his youngest son as Sam skidded to a halt, eyes locked on the ceiling.  There were no flames in this room, but the body pinned to the plaster, red spreading across her white nightgown, was hard to miss.

“Mom,” he whispered, and the resemblance to his dream of Jess, pinned to the ceiling and bleeding to death, had him rooted to the floor of his old room.

“Sammy.”  She smiled down at him with tears in her eyes.  Blood dripped from her stomach and hit his cheek. 

He was shaking as John grabbed him by the arms and spun him around, forcing his eyes away from the visage of his mother’s death.  Unlike the other two men in the room, Sam had never seen it.  And while he’d dreamt of the exact scenario with Jess, so much so that he felt physically sick at the mirror image, he still hadn’t been prepared for the way the real thing stole his breath or burned achingly deep in his soul.

“It isn’t her, Sam!” John was yelling, and the voice sounded like it came from a thousand miles away, through an ocean of noise.  His father was shaking him, refusing to look up at the image of his wife, who was now asking him why he had left her, where he was, why he hadn’t saved her.  But he ignored each and every sobbed question.  He’d been plagued by them for weeks now, and he knew it wasn’t his wife who was asking.

Sam finally centered himself, reaching up to grab his dad’s wrists as the world came back into focus and the image of his girlfriend pinned to the ceiling was replaced by his dad’s worried face.  He nodded numbly, keeping his head down as he turned back into the room and made for the window.  Dean had one leg out, the other still dangling inside, ready to leap back into the nightmare to save his family.

The younger Winchester hit the windowsill hard, but he didn’t stop.  He scrambled up and through the small portal as his brother began sliding across the roof.  Bright light ignited behind them, and Sam couldn’t help the instinctual turn of his head.  But John was directly behind him, blocking his view of the fire flaring along the ceiling.

“Keep going, son.  None of it’s real.”

He knew that.  He did.  So the hunter nodded and slid his way down the shingled roof.  Dean landed on the ground below, rolling out of momentum.  Sam dropped heavy beside him, his extra half foot of height keeping him on his feet.  John landed beside them with a grunt and the three boys moved away from the fully engulfed house as it crackled and burned. 

John finally let something flit across his features as he watched his family’s house, the little fixer-upper he had worked tirelessly to buy, had spent years making into a home with his wife, crackle and give to the hungry flames. 

And within, the love of his life.  Again.

“We gotta keep moving.” Dean gave his father’s arm a tug and John nodded.  It wasn’t smart to stay in one place.  He turned after his boys but stumbled at the sudden, unnatural pull deep within his body.  He gasped, falling to one knee to brace himself against the suddenly tilting world.

“Shit,” his eldest was swearing, trying to steady him.  “It’s feeding off of him!”

Sam dropped to a knee, grabbing John’s head to steady him.  Brown eyes darted between his own, thoughts racing across that quick mind that had gotten him a free ride to Stanford.

“It hasn’t fed on you before,” Sam said as realization settled in his stomach like lead.  He looked up to his brother.  “Why would it start now?”

Dean reached down and hauled their father to his feet, slinging one arm over his shoulder to support him.  “We know what it is now.  Game’s up; either it doesn’t need dad anymore, or it’s given up on getting his location.  Either way, we gotta get out of here now.”

It became obvious as they made their way down their old childhood street, that the small bites the Baku had taken out of Sam and Dean had been a meager snack at best.  John, being the host of the dream, was the salad, entrée, whole bottle of wine, after dinner aperitif, and a heaping dessert all put together.  If the way he was listing to the side and gasping through shallow, pained breaths was any indication, the Baku was tucking in for a hasty, gluttonous meal.

They stumbled together across the lawns of several houses before Sam took the lead, changing directions to slip between two homes.  He pulled open the wooden gate that closed off the side of the house, holding it for his brother and father to struggle through.  They hobbled past trashcans and recycling, into the fenced yard.  There was a door between bushes, probably leading to a laneway or another yard.  Unlike the side gate, this one was locked.

Sam climbed up the five foot wooden structure, straddling the top and leaning back over for his brother to heft John up.  The older hunter grumbled at the treatment, but it was obvious he was having difficulty standing on his own.  Every pull of the Baku sent him staggering in a different direction, like being tossed back and forth on the deck of a very small boat on very rough seas.

Dean managed to haul John up enough for Sam to get a sturdy grip around his middle, and together they were able to push-slash-pull their father up and over the gate.  As soon as Dean knew they’d cleared the other side and started moving through the next yard they’d landed in, Dean hopped up and over the fence.

And came face to face with Castiel.

“Jesus!”  Dean’s back slammed into the fence in a purely instinctual reaction to having another person’s face appear out of nowhere, inches from his own.  He dug his fingers into his chest, where his heart was racing and lungs struggling to find the air he’d tried to swallow instead of inhale a minute ago.  “What the hell, Cas!”

The hunter straightened up as his mind moved much faster than his body.  “Wait, why are you here?”

“You need to wake up, Dean.  Right now.”  Cas took a step toward him and the hunter immediately raised an arm to stop him from doing the Jedi, two finger mind trick.

“No, wait a minute.  Dad-”

“Bobby Singer is in danger.  You must wake up.”

Cas pressed his hand to his forehead before he could reply.

-o-o-o-

They made it through the yard, down the side of yet another house, down the drive and onto the sidewalk before Sam paused.  He was panting from the exertion of pulling his father’s weight alongside him, and now he was faced with a street he didn’t know in a town he hadn’t been old enough to remember.  Sam stared down the road in both directions.  The street was poorly lit, with trees and cars lining the road, and yellow street lights flickering through the leaves to illuminate unfriendly looking houses.  He didn’t see the Baku, or spot any dangers in particular, but he didn’t feel great about either choice.

“Which way?” he asked John, though he didn’t expect a very coherent answer given that all his dad seemed capable of doing was focusing on breathing.  The older hunter groaned, and Sam physically felt the pull of the Baku that time as John was seemingly yanked to the side.  He grunted as his father tilted to the side, nearly sliding from his grip before he managed to tighten his hold and right the hunter.

“Dean, we have to find a different way to get out of here.”  Sam turned his head to see if his brother had of those miraculous, last minute ideas he was so good at.  The younger Winchester frowned at the lack of response, and the lack of Dean in general.  “Dean?”

He turned them around, and his heart spiked at the empty driveway behind them.  “Dean!”

Sam was about to set John down and go back for his brother when the ground started shaking.  No, no no.  The nightmare couldn’t change now, not when they’d been separated.  He dropped his dad a little harder than he’d meant to and broke into a run back the way they’d come.

He only made it a few feet towards the side of the house before the earth pitched and rolled, and Sam slammed into the ground and kept sliding as up became sideways.

He slid clear off the sidewalk and across the street and straight into darkness.  The floor came up hard, jarring the bones in his legs all the way up to his hips.  He was upright, though, as disjointing as the landing experience had been in a sudden ninety degree tilt to reality.  John hit next to him, stumbling but able to catch himself before he completely face-planted.

Sam offered a steadying hand on impulse, but it was obvious from his dad’s newfound balance that the Baku had, at least temporarily, stopped feeding. 

“Dad?”

John nodded at his son, looking pale and shaken, but steady on his feet.  “I’m alright.  What happened?”

“The dream shifted again.”  Sam looked around them, hoping to spot his brother who could have gotten kicked out of the last world and into this one with them.  But as Sam spun in a circle, he quickly realized the dream had done more than change.  The world was slowly building around them, walls lined with pipes, catwalks stretching over their heads, and large vent pipes in the distance, all sliding into existence like a bad movie fade-to-black, only in reverse.  Unlike the last shift, this world was slow to form and not yet complete. 

Sam didn’t know if that was good or bad.  The Baku wasn’t feeding on John, and it felt like it had been interrupted doing so.  But if the Baku wasn’t feeding on John, and Dean was now missing…. The last shift had been a clear offensive move to separate them.  Maybe Dean was fighting back, taking up the beast’s concentration away from building the world around them.

“Your brother can take care of himself,” John spoke up, as if reading Sam’s mind.  “He’ll find his way.”

Sam nodded, trying to absorb his dad’s confidence as his own.  He didn’t like the idea of Dean facing that thing alone. 

What was forming around them was an old factory of some sort.  Chemical, if Sam knew his factories (and given how monsters tended to like the abandoned ones, he was pretty rehearsed in them).  He didn’t recognize this one, but then again, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pick out ones he’d visited in the past.  They tended to blur together.

“Do you know where we are?” Sam asked even as he tried to summon a weapon like he had the first time they’d faced the Baku.  But slow to bounce back or not, it looked like the beast still had control of the dream; his hands remained frustratingly empty.

“No.”  John was staring at the world around them as it finally settled into place with a clarity that echoed reality.  “Looks familiar, though.  Probably a hunt.”

His youngest nodded beside him and they started in a random direction.  Even with Dean lost, staying in one place was always a bad idea when a supernatural baddie was on your tail.  Sam hoped to find Dean somewhere in the maze of equipment and metal.  But more importantly, and their primary concern now, was finding a way out of the dream world.  The African Dream Root wouldn’t last much longer, and John wouldn’t shake this on his own. 

“Can you think of any other way to wake up?”  Nosie to their left had both hunters turning, going for weapons at their hips that weren’t there.  John gave a toss of his head and they changed direction, away from the clang of a fallen pipe that suggested they weren’t alone.

“No.  Been trying for weeks, every time this bastard traps me.”

“What happened those other times?”

John shrugged as they ducked under some low-hanging pipes.  The Baku was large, about the size of a cougar, so hopefully it would have trouble navigating the smaller areas they were fitting themselves through.  Of course, it also limited their range of movement in a fight and their escape options as well.

Not that there was much escape in a dream, as they were quickly learning.

“I woke up eventually.  Like you said, it never fed on me.  Sounds like the damn thing was only meant to get my location.” 

Sam nodded, as that seemed to fit with everything they assumed before.  But with the Baku after them now, it was unlikely it would let John go this time.

“Can you wake yourself up?” his dad asked.  Sam had a feeling he knew the answer, given the lack of weapon or books on him, but he gave it a shot anyway.  Had he any confidence it might work, he probably wouldn’t have tried.  Leaving his dad here alone wasn’t exactly part of the plan.

He opened his eyes to the factory and the waiting face of his father.

John nodded, having expected as much.  The root hadn’t worn off yet, and neither of them were going anywhere until it did or the Baku let them. 

His dad pulled ahead as Sam checked behind them to make sure the Baku wasn’t approaching from the rear.  He didn’t see anything in the dark lighting but the walls and pipes around them.  When he turned back, something immediately niggled the back of his mind.

John was a dozen or so feet ahead, but it felt infinitely further.  Unreachable.  The world around them faded slightly, turning darker than a moment ago. 

There was movement to his left, the slide of paws across hard-packed dirt, and Sam suddenly realized he had seen this all before, in a vision in a dirty bus station.

John glanced at him over his shoulder.

The young hunter was moving before his dad could tell him to run.  But run he did, straight into John, tackling him to the ground as the Baku soared over their heads in a lunge.  It hit the ground and slid to a stop, letting out a terrifying cry that was both a roar and a trumpet. 

Sam threw himself to his feet, hauling his father up after him and the two took off running. 

They did not make it far before John stumbled.  His youngest tried to catch him and keep him upright as they kept moving, but his hands went right through him.

Sam pulled back, freaked out at the suddenly wispy quality around the edges of his father.  He tried to grab him again, and his hand sunk a good inch into the fuzzy, incorporeal bicep before he found solidity.  He stared, horrified, at his half-buried hand on his father’s arm.

“Run, Sammy.”  It was a whisper even as John swayed and Sam had to grip his shoulders to keep him from falling.  They sunk to the ground and the young hunter watched as wisps of his father were tugged away from him like smoke through a vent.

He turned to face the Baku, standing twenty feet from them.  His paws were spread wide on the ground, back arched low in a predatory stance.  He flicked his trunk back and forth, like the twitchy tail of a cat about to pounce.  Beneath him, the ground looked like viscous paint, being greedily sucked into the monster’s open mouth.  The edges of the walls that hemmed them in were starting to waiver where they met the floor, bleeding out and towards the Baku as the dream liquefied into nothing more than food for the beast.

They were out of time.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 21

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean woke with the same momentum he had last held in the dream.  He shot out of the chair, nearly taking it with him as he stumbled back and away from an angel that didn’t exist in the waking world.  Gone was the quiet, suburban neighborhood in Lawrence, Kansas, replaced by the panic room.  His father was still sleeping on the cot against the wall and his brother was conked out in the kitchen chair beside him, head hanging back at an angle that would punish him when he woke up.

“Shit.”  Dean ran his hand through his hair as he spun around.  Had the root worn off?  But why wasn’t Sam awake too, then?

A loud bang and a crash came from above, and the hunter dropped into a defensive stance out of habit.  The reverberating blast of a shotgun followed.

Bobby. 

Dean sprinted out of the panic room and bolted up the stairs at a pace that surpassed fast and hit reckless.  He burst through the basement door and rounded into the study, skidding to a wobbly halt at the petite girl, maybe seventeen at most, standing in the front door of the house.  It was pretty obvious from the damage the wall and door had taken that she’d kicked the thing in.

Shit, Meg was early.

“You must really think I’m stupid,” she spat out, taking confident strides forward.  Dean searched the room around him for a weapon, pausing at the sight of Bobby’s crumpled body in the corner.  A shotgun lay in his limp hand, books from the shelf he’d been chucked into littered the ground around him. 

Dean tried to spot movement in his chest, but he didn’t have time to confirm if the old hunter was still alive.  Please, God, let him be alive.

Meg came to a stop just outside of the study, a smirk on her lips.  Dean’s gaze snapped back to her as he stood, weaponless, in the center of the room.  “I thought I said no more games.”

“Says the bitch who showed up to the party early.”

The demon laughed, tossing her head of curly hair back.  “Oh, Dean.  I never said I was at Caleb’s when I slit his throat.  Really, after everything I heard about you Winchesters, I have to say I’m a little underwhelmed.”

The hunter fisted his hands as the echo of his friend’s dying breath flashed through his head.  He was going to kill this bitch if it was the last thing he did.  Screw the timeline and screw some things staying the same; she wasn’t going to be one of them.

Meg held his gaze in their standoff before brown eyes roamed around the house tauntingly.  Dean glanced at the stretch of carpet she was almost standing on, knowing Bobby had painted a devil’s trap beneath it as part of their trap and dragged it over to the entryway.  He just needed her to take a step forward.

“So,” Meg didn’t move; she just glanced curiously around the room, her eyes lingering on the door down the hall to the basement, and the open entrance to the empty kitchen on her other side.  “Where’s your brother?”

“Bermuda.”

“Cute.”

“I think he was going more for ‘hot.’  Bikinis.  Speedos.  Little umbrellas in all the drinks.” 

Meg waved her arm and Dean found himself flying through the air.  He tried to tense his body for the hit, but it still knocked the air out of him as he crashed into the corner of the window above the couch.  He hit more wall than glass, but he heard the window rattle in its frame and he considered himself lucky he didn’t go straight through it.  Instead, he bounced off the couch and rolled onto the floor beside Bobby with a grunt.  God, his back was going to hate him in the morning.

With a low moan, he climbed to his feet, shaking pain and books off.  It took a moment to gain his footing as he nearly tripped over a heavy tome on Greek mythology, almost sprawling across the floor again.  She’d thrown him harder than he’d expected.  Awesome.

“You’re going to start answering my questions, you know.”

“Or what?”  He blinked at the double vision of the demon, but it was clearing up quickly enough. “You gonna kill me?”

“Something like that.”  Meg took a step forward and Dean tensed as her foot brushed the edge of the carpet.  But she stopped, tilting her head to stare at him.

Oh crap.

Her eyes dropped to the rug and he swore like a sailor in his head as she toed the edge of it.  Lifting her foot, she flipped the corner over and the edge of the spay-painted devils trap was clear even across the room.  Meg’s eyes met his, the smirk gone. 

“I’m so done with your crap, Dean.” 

She raised her hand once more and the hunter flew across the room and into Bobby’s desk.  He managed twist, hitting the edge with his side rather than his back, so it was his forearm that snapped with a splintering crack and not his spine.  He gasped against the shock of pain shooting up his limb even as momentum from the toss sent him up and over the desk.  Papers and books went flying as he rolled off the surface and hit the ground below, hard.  He cried out as the drop jarred his freshly broken arm, but at least he hadn’t landed on that one.

Bobby had moved the devil-trapped carpet out from the center of the room to block the entrance to his study completely, but that didn’t stop Meg from darting down the hall, passing the basement door to skid into the library’s secondary door just to the right of the desk.  Dean scrambled back up as she appeared in the doorway, holding his arm close to his chest.  He vaulted over the now cleared desk, landing on the floor with too much momentum and ended up half running, half tripping to the other side of the room. 

He spun around to face Meg, who was moving around the desk and pursuing him through the study as he backpedaled as quickly as possible into the kitchen.   She got in one more, good toss that sent him careening into the cabinets hard enough to see stars, before she walked straight under the devil’s trap painted on the ceiling in the center of the room and slammed into the invisible barrier of the far edge.

Her eyes snapped furiously to the ceiling and widened as she realized her mistake.

On the floor of the kitchen, Dean let his head fall back to the ground and laughed loudly.  He didn’t bother holding back as he rolled over, deep-chested chuckles interrupted by painful grunts as all his aches and pains were jostled.  He climbed to his feet, arm held feebly to his body.  He stretched his back, wincing at the multiple pops, before turning to stare at the trapped demon, a grin stretching over his face.

“I can’t believe you fell for that twice.”

Meg glared at him from the center of the room, baring her teeth. 

“Don’t go anywhere, sweetheart.  I’ll be right back.”  Dean lumbered out of the kitchen and over to Bobby, bending down to press two fingers shakily to his neck.  He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt a steady pulse, and could see the old man’s chest rising and falling from the close distance.  Straightening with a pained moan, he headed for the front door, not bothering to hide the limp in one leg or the way his back throbbed from the last crash.  Damn demons.  He ambled down the stairs on the front porch and crossed over to the haphazardly parked Impala.  It took him a moment to dig into his jeans’ pocket for the keys, grimacing at the constant, unintentional jostling to his broken arm. 

And he had a good six weeks of useless one-armness to look forward to.

He popped the trunk, ready to get a little payback.

-o-o-o-

Sam stared at the Baku as it kept its distance.  The beast didn’t need to get close to do damage, as was evident by the amount of dream mass it was sucking into its open jowls.  The walls were bleeding away into the floor, which was being pulled up by the Baku like a never-ending vacuum.

On the ground beside him, his father groaned against the constant pull of the creature.  He was still conscious, but by the looks of his fading edges, wisps curling away from him and towards the beast, John wouldn’t be aware for much longer.

The young hunter swallowed and forced himself to focus.  He still didn’t know how to wake John up while he was trapped by the Baku’s influence.  The African Dream Root wouldn’t last much longer for him, either.  If it kicked him out of the dream, his dad was as good as dead.  He had to keep the Baku distracted long enough to find a way to free his dad from its hold.

Red flight flared through the cramped alley they’d trapped themselves in running through the factory.  An explosive crack thundered off the small space, making even Sam wince at the volume.  The firework lit up, true and bright, not more than five feet off the ground between them and the beast.  The hunter could feel the heat from the flares.

The Baku hissed, staggering back away from his feeding fest.  As the light faded and the echoes of the gunpowder explosion petered out, the creature lowered its head and stared at Sam through dangerous eyes.

The hunter eyed those tusks as the beast pawed at the ground.  Crap, he’d hoped to scare it off, not make it charge.

Another firework exploded between them as the Baku reared back on its hind legs and trumpeted.   Sam released two explosions of green and blue, but the creature charged, relentless.  It jumped between the two explosions of light and color, skidding across the ground on the landing.  Throwing it’s trunk in the air, it let out a horrendous roar and sucked the firework straight into its open throat.

Sam staggered at the pull as a piece of his conscience, however small, was devoured and he felt himself fade in and out of the corporeal world. 

The bursts of light faded, leaving them in darkness lit by the monochromatic illusion of a moon.  The young hunter was panting by the time the pull against his very soul faded with the colors.  The Baku turned to face them again, head lowered dangerously in line with his spine.  This time instead of charging, it tossed its head to the side and Sam felt the world tighten around him, like a hug gone too tight and lasting too long.

He tried to summon another explosion and got nothing.  

Shit.

Beside him, John finally collapsed into unconsciousness.  The Baku eyed the fallen hunter before turning those fierce irises to Sam.  He swore he saw the taunt there as the creature dipped his head back down and started feeding, all but ignoring the now defenseless hunter.

Sam’s hands tightened into fists, nails biting at the flesh of his palms that wasn’t really there in dreamland.  There was only one thing left he could think of to try, even if he’d promised Dean he wouldn’t do it again.

-o-o-o-

Within the circle, Meg was seething when Dean made his way back into the study.  The more minor aches and pains were beginning to fade, which was a good sign for how he’d be feeling come morning.  His back still spasmed with every step, causing him to limp, but besides that and the damn arm, he had gotten away with nothing more than bumps and bruises.

The rest of his family had better come out in similar condition, or Meg would be begging for a quick death before the day was through.

The demon’s fury faltered when she spotted the Colt in Dean’s hand.  She eyed the gun, her face falling, then reddening, and then settling for something like pissed acceptance.  Meg had always been a quick one.

“I should have killed you both,” she spat, turning her chin up at the human as he stood just outside of the trap with her death in his hands.  “I could have, you know.  A hundred times.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”  Dean flipped the cylinder of the old revolver open with a flick of his wrist, checking the bullet count.  “But Azazel wouldn’t let you, would he?  See, me and Sam, he needs us alive.  At least for now.”

Meg shook her head, anger fierce in her eyes along with fear.  “Who the hell is feeding you this shit?  And where were they when I was beating the crap out of you, huh?  You think they’re on your side?  They sure don’t seem to care whether you live or die.”

Dean huffed something of a laugh, though there wasn’t much mirth in the sound.  Meg was one of the toughest demons they’d ever dealt with.  Relentless, cruel, and fiercely loyal.  Crazy, even.  But she had never been much for negotiation. 

Probably why Crowley couldn’t stand her.

“No one’s feeding me anything,” Dean snapped as he flicked the cylinder shut and raised his good arm to aim directly between the demon’s eyes.  “You want to know how I know so much?  I lived through it.  Been there, done that: took a one-way ride in an Angelic DeLorean.”

Meg’s eyes widened.

“Spoiler alert.”  He cocked the hammer of the Colt.  “You don’t win.”

The bullet tore through her chest, just below her right clavicle.  The demon staggered back with a gasp.  Light scattered beneath her skin in microbursts of lightning, silhouetting her bones in relief.  Meg met his eyes for a single moment before the bullet within extinguished her rotting essence in an explosive burst of orange, and she hit the floor.

“That’s for Ellen and Jo, you demonic bitch.”

-o-o-o-

Sam shifted his stance, spreading his feet shoulder length apart.  He raised his hand, fingers spread wide as he focused on the creature.  The Baku wasn’t paying attention to him, convinced he was no longer a threat.  That would be his first and last mistake.

The hunter closed his eyes and drew a slow, deep breath.  He focused on that thing just beneath the surface of his skin.  The thing that, here, was a dull thrum in the back of his mind, like the buzzing of electricity through wires.

It didn’t take him long to find.  When he did, he only hesitated for a moment before wrapping his hand around that pulsing cord of energy. 

Brown eyes flew open as the thing he’d just enveloped his mind around flared at the sudden attention.  It filled his body, vibrating bones and muscles and making him feel weightless and heavy in a single breath.  His mass increased as gravity retreated, although he knew neither existed in this place.  His feet were still solidly on the ground when he checked, but damn if it didn’t feel like he was struggling just to stay connected with the earth. 

The Baku stopped feeding, lifting his head to stare.  Sam met the thing’s gaze head on, squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw.  This monster picked the wrong hunter to mess with. 

His physical hand, clenched in a fist as surely as his mental hand wrapped around that throng of darkness within him, spread open.  The energy within him practically sang and his whole body shook from the vibrations it caused within him. 

It wanted out, and he would let it.

The Baku winced, ducking his head with a hiss.  It staggered back a step, eyes full of confusion and the first flickers of doubt.  The creature doubled down, pressing his feet hard into the ground against the pressure building from the tiny human.  It tossed its trunk with a roar, shoulder blades scrunching together in preparation for a pounce.

But Sam didn’t care.  He pushed harder, shoving the thing back with his mind and digging beneath skin that wasn’t really there.  The hunter searched deeper than the visage of the beast, straight through flesh and muscle that were nothing more than representation.  He pushed down to the soul. 

The creature hissed and writhed, tossing its body from side to side in an attempt to dislodge the presence wrapping tight claws around its insides. 

The hunger could feel blood beginning to drip down his nose.  He could almost taste the copper on his tongue echoing down from the waking world.  He ignored it.

Sam tightened his fist when he was sure he’d found the beast’s center.  It felt slimy, like oil sludge dripping through his fingers.  But he could feel warmth within it, beneath the inch thick darkness that snaked around the white light like a living thing.

The hunter slammed his eyes shut, focusing everything he had on the thing he currently held within his mind.  He started pulling at the sludge, ripping away fistfuls of the dark goop as the creature screamed and snapped and howled.

-o-o-o-

Dean lowered the gun, savoring the momentary calm that filled him.  Meg was dead and all the people she would hurt going forward would be spared.  He rubbed at his chest, Colt still in hand.  The strong ache that had been there since Cas jump started his consciousness was finally starting to fade.

The man from the future moved forward swiftly, dropping beside the young body the demon had been possessing.  He’d shot true, a through-and-through just under the clavicle.  It should be survivable for a human, though it would hurt like a bitch, but it was too close to the heart for a demon to escape when the bullet was from the Colt.  

He dropped the gun beside her lifeless body to search for a pulse.  Even as his fingers pressed to cold skin, he spotted the blood spreading across her chest in more than one place.  Dean pulled away with a clenched fist.  She had multiple gunshot wounds in her gut and breast.  Caleb or Garth had gotten off several good shots, their aim as true as hunter’s had to be.

Scooping up his gun, Dean stood.  When it became evident that tucking the weapon into his waistline one-handed was easier said than done, he set it down on Bobby’s desk instead, frustration mounting in the face of another innocent life he’d cost.  A moan and a grunt alerted him to Bobby waking up, and he quickly crossed the room towards his fallen friend, side-stepping the girl they’d lost in the middle of all this. 

Bobby was just sitting up as Dean sank to a knee beside him.  The older man grumbled, grabbing at the back of his head and the no doubt fresh bruise there.

“You okay?”

Bobby waved the question off, obviously fine given the circumstances.  He dropped his hand back down as he eyed Dean critically.  “You?”

The younger hunter nodded with a half grin.  He raised his broken limb by the shoulder, wincing as he did so.  He extended his good arm to the older man.  “Arm’s busted, but otherwise I’m good.”

“Good.”  The older hunter took Dean’s offered hand and pulled himself up with a grunt, body aching.  He caught the boy’s eyes and held him there with a single look.  “Then you can tell me all about that angelic DeLorean of yers.”

-o-o-o-

Sam pushed past the pain in his head and bones, the exhaustion that dogged him down as he clawed and scrambled through the black ooze of this thing’s infested soul.  If he couldn’t destroy the Baku, he’d tear it into shreds too tiny to harm his family ever again.

He didn’t know what he was doing, but he didn’t spare time to think about it.  Working on instinct, he tore dripping chunks of slime away from a ball of light that shone too bright to look directly on whenever he pulled enough sludge back to expose the blinding brilliance.  If he could get through to that light, he knew he could free his father and end this nightmare once and for all.

Focused on a task that narrowed his world down to the beast, himself, and that bright soul, Sam didn’t notice the tremors that started beneath his feet.  They ran across the surface of the world with finite trembling, and slithered up his body to fill his ears with a low, distant buzzing. 

At first, it lined up with the way his body vibrated with the power coursing within and Sam paid it no mind.  Soon enough, though, the buzzing grew until his ears went numb, and then it kept going.  Sam grimaced, twitching his head to dislodge the growing noise that stabbed at his concentration.  The earth beneath his feet began to truly shake.  He tried to refocus his attention on the Baku.  The buzzing grew in pitch until it was piercing, and he finally had to release the beast to slam his hands over his ears. 

The terrifying realization that his hands made no difference came almost immediately, and the sound still continued to climb.  It felt as though it was penetrating straight into his brain to the point of exploding.  The young hunter cried out and fell to his knees, whether from pain or the tossing of the earth, even he didn’t know.  Fresh blood ran from beneath his palms as his ears practically wept and the world shook tried to shake itself apart.

The Baku cowered beside the factory wall, whining in high pitch bursts and clawing at its ears and head.  The dream started to crumble around them.  Large portions of the world split open, like tears across a canvas, and white light shone through with such brilliance that Sam couldn’t look.  Even with his eyes closed, the building explosion burned through his eyelids until he was sure he was blind and deaf.

It grew until he was encompassed in a light so pure and hot it burned.  The piercing pitch shattered the world like glass, and everything disappeared in the explosion of white.

-o-o-o- 

The ‘oh crap’ expression plastered on Dean’s face would have been comical in almost any other situation, and it was a shame they were in the middle of a damn demon attack and Baku nightmare.  Bobby would have liked to take a moment and enjoy the dumbfounded look on the cocky hunter’s face.  He’d been getting damn tired of the enigmatic man being three steps ahead of them for the past six months.  It was nice to see some genuine surprise and speechlessness on the kid he knew.

Dean stood there, gaping like a fish at his surrogate father.  He didn’t know how to respond.  He was pretty sure he was screwed, but even if he wasn’t, part of him didn’t want to try and lie his way out of this.  Part of him – the bigger part – was tired of lying, tired of walking this path alone. 

With nothing else to do and completely unsure of what he was supposed to say in the face of Bobby’s realization, the man from the future reached out with his good arm and pulled the other man into a hug.  Bobby stiffened under his grip, but Dean didn’t let go. 

“I wanted to tell you so many times.”  He said it more as an apology than explanation.  He stubbornly ignored the flare in his chest and the burn in his eyes, or the relief that practically drowned him.  Before the moment could get more chick-flicky than he’d already made it, Dean pulled away. 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for coming clean, when Bobby emptied a bottle of holy water straight across his face.

Dean blinked through the water at the man.  He spit a mouthful of purified water to the side.  When the hell had he even pulled out his flask?  “I’m not a demon, Bobby.”

His half-assed shrug was utterly unapologetic.  “Sounded like a better option than time travel.”

Dean was spared from answering as the light in the room suddenly dimmed dramatically, despite the late afternoon sun outside that should be shining in.  Before either man could move to the window to figure out what the hell had happened to the sun, smoke slammed into the house from all sides as dozens of formless demons barraged the Singer home out of nowhere.

The two hunters stumbled into the center of the room, avoiding Meg’s body as demons attacked the remaining warding of the house in a three hundred and sixty degree arc around them.  The building shook under the assault, groaning at the structural stressors.  Picture frames rattled on the walls and books vibrated right off their shelves. 

Dean glanced at Bobby, eyes wide.  “Holy crap.”

The wards held as the demons collided against them again and again, disembodied voices screaming.  Bobby met Dean’s wide eyes with confusion and panic of his own.  He had disabled only the minimal amount of protection needed to let Meg in, but even that was enough to seriously weaken what remained to protect the house.  And under this level of assault, the rest weren’t going to hold for long.

Bobby reloaded and cocked his shotgun.  Dean swiped the Colt off the desk, but he wasn’t even sure what to shoot at.  Would the colt disable the wards if he shot through them?  The thing was supposed to kill everything, right?  Smoke swirled violently outside the study’s window, pulsing with each push.

“What the hell is this?” Bobby asked, spinning continuously at each new bang and rattle, coming from every wall.  It was a true siege, a barrage against his home from dozens of formless demons.  He’d never seen anything like it.

The house started shaking. 

It wasn’t the same hits and rattling the demons were inflicting on the old structure as they fought the remaining wards to get inside the house. No, this was new and in addition, like they needed more to deal with.  First it was just the floor, trembling minutely and quickly growing until the tremors were climbing up the walls and the building rumbled and quaked until the hunters could barely keep their feet beneath them.

Dust and bits of plaster rained down on the two hunters as a crack suddenly split through Bobby’s ceiling, cutting straight through the devil’s trap painted on the ceiling.

And then it was gone.  The shaking stopped abruptly with a final shove; the demons pushed off the walls of the house and vanished with a scream.  Dean bolted for the window, pulling back the curtains.  A writhing ball of black smoke was flying away to the east at impossible speeds, disappearing from visual range in seconds.

Dean looked back at the older hunter. 

What.  The.  Hell. 

Bobby, eyes bulging, could only shrug helplessly. 

The silence in the house seemed deafening, and with it came the realization that he had left his brother and father in the panic room.  Shouting Sam’s name, Dean took off for the basement, Bobby hot on his heels. 

“We’re here!” 

The response immediately eased the tightness in his chest before he threw open the door and spotted his brother at the bottom of the basement stairs.  Sam was holding John up with an arm slung over his shoulders.  Their dad looked shaken but alive. 

“We’re okay.” 

Dean took the stairs two at a time to help his little brother get their father back upstairs.  He spared a glance at Sam, who met his gaze with the same expression.

“What happened?”

“Not a friggin’ clue,” Dean shook his head.  “Meg showed early.  She brought a bunch of bodiless demons with her.  They took off like bats outta hell after she ate a bullet from the Colt.  You?”

Sam blinked in surprised, having not been privy to the siege upstairs or been able to discern the shaking in the dream for the shaking in the waking world.  He shrugged as they hefted their dad up the first steps.  “No clue, either.  The Baku just…disappeared in a bright light.  Then we woke up.”

“Well that’s anticlimactic,” Dean grumbled, causing Sam to send a prize-winning bitchface his way.

“Sure wasn’t anticlimactic for those of us still stuck in it,” he sniped back, though there wasn’t much heat in it so Dean didn’t bother feeling guilty about leaving his kid brother and father to face the Baku alone.  It wasn’t exactly like Cas had given him a choice.    

So he didn’t take the bait, instead helping Sammy get their dad up the rest of the stairs without further comment.  He could tell his brother wasn’t telling the whole truth; the smeared blood across his upper lipped suggested a hell of a lot more, but Dean didn’t push.  At least not yet.

He caught Bobby’s eyes as they made it to the landing.  Yeah, it wasn’t exactly like he was telling the whole truth either.  At least…not yet.

-o-o-o-

John was out as soon as they’d finished the warding circle around the couch in the study.  It was unclear how much damage the Baku did down there, but he was coherent enough to be his usual grumpy self, insisting he was fine despite being unable to stay upright on his own for more than half a second.

Dean watched him from the kitchen, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway.  Sam checked the warding again, referring back to the book in his hand again and again to make sure he got it right.  Neither of them knew if the Baku had been killed in the explosion of light Sam described, and Dean couldn’t draw any firm conclusions while his brother obviously left out a chunk of the story.

A chunk he suspected was the cause of that explosion and came from the demon blood flowing through the kid.  His hand twitched with the urge to lock his brother in the panic room and sweat it out of him until he was sure he was still the Sam he knew.

“He’ll be okay now,” Sammy said as he set the book on one of the practically empty bookshelves and crossed the room to stand beside his brother.  “Nothing should get through that circle.”

Dean nodded.  Too bad they hadn’t done that to start with.  Too bad John didn’t check his messages or rely on his sons for fucking help when he needed it.  Too bad Bobby hadn’t called them when their dad first showed up.  Too bad Sammy couldn’t leave his powers well enough alone and listen to Dean when he told him not to do something.  Too bad Dean had fucked everything up to start with, coming back to the past like he thought he could change anything.

The hunter pushed off the wall, tension filling every line of his body.  His brother let him go.  He moved over to the devil-trapped center of the room, where Bobby was wrapping the dead girl up in a sheet.  He knelt down, helping the older hunter with the last of the ties.

“Her family will never know what happened,” he muttered angrily, guilt eating at his insides for getting some poor kid killed.

Bobby looked at the hunter, and opted out of telling him it wasn’t his fault.  He knew the boy too well, and those words would fall on deaf ears when he was like this.  Together, the two grabbed the girl and hefted her off the ground. 

“I know some people.”  The two headed for the yard, pushing the screen door open and letting it clang behind them.  “They’ll make sure she’s found without it tracing back to us.”

Dean nodded, feeling marginally better that her family wouldn’t live the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to their precious daughter.  Wondering if she was still alive, out there living a nightmare. 

“We’re gonna have a talk about that DeLorean, you know.” 

Dean didn’t meet the hunter’s eyes, but after a moment he nodded anyway.  They set the girl down in the bed of one of Bobby’s trucks.  It was out of view of visitors, and she’d have to stay there until these people Bobby knew could come pick her up. 

It didn’t sit well with the guilt-ridden man, but there wasn’t much else they could do. 

“Maybe you and Sam ought to stay here a while.  Recharge.  You two probably need as much sleep as your daddy, at this point.”

Dean met his surrogate father’s eyes, and saw the concern there clear as day.  Sure, there were questions too, but Bobby didn’t ask them.  Not yet, at least, and Dean almost sagged with the relief of it.

“Sure, Bobby.  Sounds good.”

-o-o-o-

Dean went back into the study as Bobby made the call to his cleanup crew.  Sam was putting books back on their shelves, occasionally glancing over to their sleeping father for any signs the Baku had come back.  Dean started with the bloodstain on the old wood floors, at least until Bobby came back in, spotted him, and told him to give it up and move the carpet back in place atop it.  Wouldn’t be the first hidden stain in the house.

Sam waited until the grumbling hunter ambled into the kitchen to take stock of the damage before he glanced in his brother’s direction, finally asking, “What happened back there?”

Dean didn’t answer, dragging the rug back to the center of the room one handed, using the grunts of effort as cover for his silence.  Sam let it be until the devil-trapped carpet was back in place, desk and chairs atop it like it had never been moved. 

“Dean.”

“Back where?” the man from the future parried, despite knowing exactly what his brother was asking.

Sam spared him a look before going back to his librarian duties.  “In the dream.  You disappeared.”

His brother shrugged defensively, starting to pick up the papers, books, and scattered items he’d sent flying with his desk vault earlier.  “Guess I got kicked out early.”

The Stanford student thought that was weird.  He was pretty sure it wasn’t the whole story, not by the way Dean wasn’t looking at him.  But it was hard to tell, given that every line of his brother’s body was filled with anger and pain and guilt, so much so that Sam couldn’t tell where all of it was coming from.

Yes, Garth and Caleb were dead because of them, as was a young girl they didn’t even know the name of.  Yes, demons had showed up in an unprecedented frontal attack unlike anything they’d ever seen, and Yellow Eyes was recruiting monsters to do his dirty work.

But they’d saved their dad, Bobby was alive and okay, and Meg was dead.   The amount of guilt and self-loathing radiating off his brother wasn’t adding up.

Besides, given the differences in their build and weight, Sam should have burned through the Dream Root faster than Dean, if one of them was going to.  Then again, given what his brother could eat in a single sitting, along with the fact he didn’t exercised outside of a hunt yet never gained a pound….  Yeah, metabolism like that could have made up for the difference in their body weights.

But Sam was pretty sure the Dream Root had nothing to do with his brother leaving dreamland early.

-o-o-o-

John slept through the dinner the three hunters ordered in that night.  None of them felt exactly like cooking and pizza was easy.  Sam retreated after a couple slices, leaving his brother and surrogate father to finish the rest of the box and head out for the hospital.  They’d splinted Dean’s arm, but it was definitely broken and would need a cast.  The stubborn bastard insisted it could wait till morning, at least until Sam reminded him if it started to set at all then they’d have to re-break it. 

So Dean and Bobby headed out for a long night sitting in the ER waiting room of the nearest hospital while Sam stayed behind for a long night of his own, waking John up every hour or two to make sure the Baku had not returned.  Dean had been more than reluctant to leave his brother in a house recently and unexplainably sieged by demons trying to bring the entire structure down.  But hours after the attack, they hadn’t returned. 

It was a mystery that did not sit well with the man from the future.

Best the boys could figure, the demons had been trying to free Meg, only to realize she was dead and bounce as fast as possible.  Bobby reasoned the Baku had probably split at the siege.  Not even monsters wanted to be surrounded by demons.  The white light explosion could have been the Baku’s power shattering and John waking up.

None of it lined up completely, but it was the best they got. 

Sam collapsed in the armchair he’d dragged over near the couch by his father’s head.  All he wanted to do was sleep for a week, or at least until the next “wake dad up” alarm went off on his phone, but he couldn’t just yet. 

Digging through his bag, he pulled out the notebook once more.  It was still folded open to the scribbled notes on angels.  He’d have to dig into Bobby’s extensive lore as soon as he had a chance.  But for now, he had other things to look into.

Sam thought back to that dream world, when he’d first found Dean standing in the darkness.  The older hunter had been unsure of where he was, confused when his brother showed up, and even more so when Sam had reminded him that they were there to find Dad.

But more importantly, he had looked a good ten years older.

Sam ran a hand down his face and blew his hair out of his eyes.  He put the tip of his pen to paper, but hesitated.  It was crazy.  He must be crazy.  But so was his brother looking a decade older than he should.  So was Dean realizing it and slamming up mental walls with such strength and conviction that he’d suddenly looked the right age again in the blink of an eye, and hadn’t slipped again for the rest of the dream.  Not even when the Baku started feeding on his nightmares and generating things and people Sam had never seen: nightmares he didn’t know his brother had.

Sam stared down at the page with notes about angels and theories on demon blood. 

Dean knew things he shouldn’t.  He acted different; heavier and older.  He said things that Sam didn’t understand, made references to hunts he’d never heard of, and knew what would happen next with a confidence not even psychic dreams could explain.  Sam knew it was his brother and not some imposter, but he hadn’t been able to explain how it wasn’t the brother he knew, time and time again for the last six months.

Then there was the kid that had shown up in Dean’s dream.  A young boy that had made his brother look heart broken, yet happy enough to cry.  Sam had suspicions on who that boy must be, but it didn’t make sense.  The woman had been older too, far older than his twenty-seven year old brother, and Dean had never been much for older woman.

And the boy, Ben, had been at least ten.  Too old to be Dean’s son.  At least, not yet.

Sam put the pen to paper once more, scribbling down two words and underlining them several times with hard, firm marks and no more hesitation.

Time travel?

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 22

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean descended the stairs of Bobby's house with an aching body, rubbing at the grit in his eyes still left over from the meager amount of sleep he'd gotten the night before. He and the older hunter had been in the ER for four hours after an already long and painful day. Through bleary eyes, Dean eyed the heavy cast securing his broken ulna from mid-palm to elbow and currently sitting pretty in a sling.

He wouldn't even be wearing the annoying thing, except Bobby would kick his ass if he didn't and the older hunter was surely already up and in the kitchen. So sling it was.

Awesome.

The hunter lowered his useless arm back to his chest and hit the bottom of the stairs, only to draw up short. He could partially see into Bobby's study through the same door Meg had charged him yesterday. The desk was all back in order, or, you know, as much order as Bobby's desk was ever in: covered in books, loose papers, old artifacts, and the odds and ends of spell components.

John was awake, standing in front of the far side of the desk, inspecting something he held reverently in his hands. Dean's grip on the railing tightened as he realized his father was staring at the Colt. Dean had left the gun on Bobby's desk last night, within reach of his brother in case those demons showed back up or God knows what else attacked.

Now Sammy was asleep upstairs and their dad was staring at the gun that would kill Azazel. There was a look in his eye that Dean knew too well, even ten years later.

He took the last step down loudly, purposefully hitting the floor hard enough to jolt his father out of his thoughts. Clearing his throat, the man from the future crossed into the study, body language defensive. John stared at him, then set the gun back down on the desk.

"Where'd you get it?"

The intensity of Dean's gaze didn't waiver. "Daniel Elkins."

John huffed, shaking his head. He clenched his jaw for a second, angry at the thought of his old buddy having the damn gun that could have ended all of it. He'd had it the whole time. The jaded man ran a hand over his fisted knuckles before forcing himself to let it go. It didn't matter anymore.

"And he just let you have it?" The huff in John's words was disbelief enough.

Dean straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. "I asked him for it."

His father's head snapped up at that, and Dean kept his chin up. John frowned immediately. There was that man once more, the one from his dream; the one that held a gun to his jaw and fully intended to use it. If the boy hadn't walked through two devil's traps, cut himself with a silver knife, and swallowed a glass of holy water after getting home from an exhausting night at a hospital to find his dad holding a gun on him from the couch…. Well, if it wasn't for all that, John wouldn't have believed it was his Dean standing in front of him.

He still wasn't convinced it was, even if it was human.

"Who told you about it?"

His son's eyes flashed dangerously. "Not you, that's for sure."

John opened his mouth to tell his boy to watch it when the thumping of Sam coming down the stairs halted both of them. His youngest son entered the room, faltering in the doorway at the obvious tension in the room.

"Morning," the sasquatch of a younger brother said a little awkwardly, looking between his brother and father. He glanced at Dean's splinted arm and clenched fists, then John, standing almost possessively close to Bobby's desk. Sam's eyes lowered to the gun sitting atop the surface.

Oh.

"How are you feeling?" He directed the question at their father, attempting to break the pressure building in the small room.

"Better, thanks to you, son." John smiled at his youngest, pride shining in his eyes that made Sam's heart swell. He so rarely got that look from his dad. It was offset, however, by the way John turned back to Dean, gaze immediately hardening. "I'm going to need that gun."

"Not gonna happen, sir."

John clenched his fists against the edge of the desk and Sam recognized that expression as the one that usually proceeded his older brother getting hit.

"That gun can kill the thing that murdered your mother!"

Sam took a step forward, but Dean beat him to it as he threw his good arm out angrily. "Yeah, and you're gonna get yourself killed right alongside her!"

The youngest Winchester snapped his eyes to his brother. That didn't sound like speculation or worry. That was the kind of fury Dean used to cover grief. And the look in his eye was enough for Sam to know that Dean wasn't just saying it for the sake of his argument. If he really was from the future… Sam looked back at their dad, as if seeing him for the first time. Suddenly, he really, really hoped he was wrong for once.

John took a physical step back at the verbal slap to his face. Dean had never talked to him like that before, even at his most obstinate. He rallied immediately, straightening up for a good talking to, but his oldest son wasn't done.

"You want to go after the Yellow Eyed Demon, we do it together. Otherwise, tough luck; the Colt's staying with us."

The finality in those words were certainly coming from a man a hell of a lot older and more confident than Dean Winchester had ever been, at least in this timeline. Sam chanced a quick glance at his brother. Dean was going to have to tell him exactly what happened between father and son that broke the good soldier he used to be. Right after he explained that little comment about them losing their dad to Yellow Eyes. Just what the hell was coming down the road that could take down John Winchester and turn his goof-off, insecure, crass brother into this angry, sharp, hurting man before them?

Sam stepped between the two.

"Can we at least make it through breakfast before we try to kill each other?" He almost couldn't believe what he was asking, or that he stood between Dean and John Winchester, trying to diffuse a bomb. Sure, he'd seen his brother and his dad fight before, but to be honest he'd never been the one to break it up. Honestly, he'd rarely needed to. His father and brother were more the 'storm off and cool down' fighters, especially Dean. No, he rarely played the referee; usually, it was Dean standing in those shoes as Sam fought every bone in his body not to tell his father to fuck off and John used every not inconsiderable ounce of his self-discipline not to beat his son into submission.

Yet here they were; Dean looked just as close to punching their dad as John looked ready to give his oldest a good whipping. Things had definitely changed.

"I'd appreciate that." The three men turned at the new, gruff addition to the conversation. Bobby was standing in the doorway to the study, expression one part cautious, six parts annoyed. "And if you're plannin' on destroyin' someone's house – again – make it someone else's. I'm too old to be cleaning up after you lot."

With that, the old hunter crossed through the room and headed into the kitchen for coffee and whatever was left in his fridge that could be scrapped together for something resembling breakfast.

He didn't stay to see what kind of ridiculous tension-filled, silent-communication looks the Winchesters exchanged. But he put Dean to work scrambling eggs when he entered the kitchen with a somewhat guilty, if not still stormy expression. Sam was put to clearing the table of old bottles, pizza boxes, and books as soon as he edged in behind his brother. John didn't bother coming to help, instead heading outside to do Lord knew what and letting the door slam on his way out.

Bobby didn't pay him much mind, happier with the company that chose to stay as he barked at Dean that he'd put too much milk in the eggs and snapped at Sam to not be messing up his organized chaos until both of them lost the tension in their shoulders and broke down into bickering between each other, the way family should be.

-o-o-o-

When breakfast was cooked up and divvied between four plates, Sam grabbed two of them and headed for the back door.

"Leave it, Sam."

The youngest Winchester paused at the screen, turning back into the kitchen to regard his older brother. Sam's face said he didn't want to fight, on either front.

"He's our dad, and he almost died."

The softly spoken words were yet another verbal slap delivered that morning. Dean's expression flashed to something hurt and haunted before he looked away, burying it under self-righteous anger. Sam pushed the door open with his back and slipped into the salvage yard.

-o-o-o-

His dad wasn't hard to find. John hadn't gone far, leaning against the bumper of an '82 Ford pickup that had seen better days. Sam settled against the car beside his father, handing him a plate of scrambled eggs and a couple pieces of buttered toast. It wasn't much, but as Bobby had griped over the stove while cooking it, it wasn't like he had signed up to host breakfast for four people that morning.

John accepted the offering without a word, and Sam started picking meagerly at his own breakfast, trying to remember the speech he'd prepped on his way out here. Everything sounded stupid now, or likely to start a fight.

"That man in there." John shifted against the car, staring at Bobby Singer's house. He glanced over at his youngest, who met his severe gaze with raised eyebrows. "That's not your brother."

Sam stared at his father, eyes darting back and forth between John's, wondering exactly where this conversation was going if not a fight. With a huff, he looked down at the plate in his hands.

"So you noticed that." It wasn't a question. If anything, it might have been sarcasm. The changes in his brother weren't exactly subtle. But God help John Winchester if he suggested Dean was anything but human. Sam knew what this family did to things that weren't human. "It's Dean. Believe me, I checked. It's…a lot's changed, Dad."

John's gaze was no more relaxed; if anything, he looked harsher in the morning light as he stared at his son with a mix of disappointment and anger. "You can't be sure, son. Whoever that is-"

"I'm sure." Sam straightened against the car. "That is my brother. You think Bobby would let him walk around his house if it wasn't? You think I would let him into your head? That's Dean. He's just…different."

Because he had apparently traveled back in time an undetermined amount of years and wasn't the Dean they knew at all. And yeah, Sam would be having that conversation with his brother just as soon as he figured out how to approach it. Or got over the all-encompassing rage he felt every time he thought about it.

There were a dozen theoretical explanations for his brother not telling him he was a time traveler from the future. Hypothetical paradoxes and metaphysical laws Sam could only hazard at. And if this 'Castiel' had anything to do with it, possibly divine intervention as well. But Sam knew his brother better than Dean knew himself; none of that would matter to him. The only reason Dean Winchester wouldn't tell his kid brother about a secret that big was because he didn't trust him with it – didn't think he could take care of himself in regard to it. Because Sam had been dealing with that Dean Winchester for twenty three years, and a hundred more wouldn't change that about his brother.

Heaven help John Winchester if he dared open his mouth and told Sam his brother was a monster, or anything else. Liar or not, from the future or not, Dean was still his big brother. Of that, he had no doubt.

Lucky for both of them, John changed the subject. "That gun. That how you kept your girl safe?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. We came to…an arrangement with the Yellow Eyed Demon."

His dad huffed in disbelief, but it was relatively non-judgmental for the bitter hunter, so Sam tried not to jump down his throat for it. It took more effort than he was willing to admit.

"He tell you how he got it?"

The young hunter shook his head. He was pretty sure 'he asked for it' wouldn't go over any better the second time. Not to mention, he still had trouble believing it himself.

Beside him, John was shaking his head angrily. "Daniel wouldn't even tell me he had it. How the hell did your brother know about it?"

Twenty four hours ago, Sam would have jumped on that in the blink of an eye. Dean had definitely told him their dad was the one to mention the Colt. To be honest, though, he'd known that was bull in the same breath Dean first said it. John Winchester didn't share things, alcohol-induced or not.

Now, Sam was pretty sure Dean learned about the gun from entirely different circumstances. Of course, that wasn't something he was about to share with his father. So he shrugged.

"Dean knows a lot of things he doesn't tell me."

"That gun could end it, Sammy." John locked that harsh, imploring gaze on him once more. Any softness that might have been present in any other widowed father was absent in the face of the revenge and anger that was John Winchester. "It could kill the thing that killed your mother."

Sam looked away. So that's how it was going to be. John Winchester disappeared for almost a year, refused to answer their calls or show up when they needed him most, and now expected Sam to turn on his brother, the one person who had been there for him the last half year. Through Jess and her family, the yellow eyed demon and Meg, the demon blood….Dean had stayed beside him through it all.

Damn. He really hadn't come out here to start a fight.

"I think it's bigger than one demon, Dad," he protested quietly, trying one last ditch effort to keep the train from crashing. Knowing him and his father, it was an inevitable outcome. His grip on the forgotten plate of breakfast was only tightening, despite his best efforts.

He could still see Yellow Eyes standing half a dozen feet away, the ice cold grip of the colt in his hand, the pressure of its muzzle flush against his skull. He could still feel the pulsing in his vein, begging him to do it, to kill the thing that had ruined his life, that had tried to take Jess away from him, for nothing more than a damn game.

Did John think he didn't want the demon just as dead? Jess's life was riding on them ending this. His future with her was riding on it. God, he had wanted nothing more than to shoot that bastard right between his horrid yellow eyes.

But it hadn't been about him. This couldn't be just about him. That was something John Winchester would never be able to act on. This was still about revenge for the jaded man, no matter how he tried to color it with honor or justice.

Sam looked back at his father in the face of his silence, only to stop at the sight of the man looking back at him. He could see it. He could see it in the lines of sorrow around his father's eyes, the crease in his brow, the way his hardened gaze had turned more desperate than angry.

John Winchester god damn knew this was bigger than one demon, and still he was asking for that gun. Still, he was leaving his sons behind and cutting them out of the biggest decision of their lives.

"Did he say anything to you?"

Sam looked away from his father. The man already knew the answer. He'd known all along.

A terrifying numbness overcame him as he gripped at the edges of the plate in his hand, food all but forgotten. His dad was asking about the confrontation with Jess, but all Sam could see was that muddy parking lot. The taste of copper climbed up his throat and spilled into his mouth. He turned away from his father, trying to keep the bile from rising. Hastily, he placed the plate on the hood of the car with a clatter. A piece of toast fell off, sliding onto the metal.

He didn't want to admit it out loud – not to John Winchester, who had no room for grey in his black and white world. Not to his hunter father, who drew the line in life between human and everything else. Right now, Sam didn't know where he existed on that line, not anymore. He really didn't want to know where his father would put him either.

The college kid swallowed, finally turning back and leaning against the truck in a parody of normal that hurt his soul. He clenched his hands in fists. He didn't want to lie. Lying was all the Winchesters seemed to do to each other, and he was sick of it. He refused to be a part of it any longer.

"You first."

He looked back up at his father, mustering every ounce of his anger, every ounce of betrayal and fear, and forced it into strength and resolve. John watched the boy before him and wondered, with no small amount of pride, when the kid had grown up.

"I don't know much," he conceded, taking a deep breath of the cool morning air as he turned his eyes up to the blue sky, dotted with clouds. He and his youngest had never been on the same page. Hell, most of the time they weren't even in the same book. They lived in two very different worlds, both unable to cross into the other's understanding. But what that demon had done to him…That was on John. It was a father's job to protect his children, to protect his wife. And he'd failed them all.

Damn, it had hurt to learn it. He'd suspected something for a while, but the confirmation of finding another kid that bastard had touched, of hearing his parents talk about the night, about the blood… He glanced back at his son, at the boy with the demon blood who was destined to kill, if that demon had any say in it. The kid would never know how badly John wanted to spare him that, how desperate he was to kill the monster before he could dig his claws in any deeper.

"He…. He did something to you as a kid," he finally admitted, unsure how to best say it. If confirming it had hurt, telling Sammy was a thousand times worse.

"He bled in my mouth."

John's gaze snapped to his son's and he had no words for the surprise blanking his mind. How had Sam- had the demon told him? Why would Yellow Eyes do that, what advantage could it possibly give him?

His dad's silence was reaction enough. Sam shoved himself off the car, anger eating at every inch of him even as he fought it back.

He really hadn't come out here for a fight.

"You knew," he bit the words out with enough venom to make John Winchester flinch. He spun back on him. "How long?"

"Sammy-"

"How. Long."

John couldn't keep his son's gaze, looking down at his hands. "Not long. I suspected something for a while, but I didn't know what he really did to you until…about a month ago."

Even angry, Sam's mind never stopped, and he connected the dots easily enough. "When he came after you with the Baku.

The vein under his dad's ear ticked as he worked his jaw, remembering too easily the close calls he'd had the past couple of weeks, culminating with the Baku. "Guess I was getting too close."

He looked up at his youngest, who was standing with a wide stance, squared shoulders, and clenched fists. Like a caged animal, Sam seemed a moment away from blowing up.

"I'm closing in, Sammy. The fact he's coming after me is proof I'm getting to him. I'm close, son. With that gun-"

It was the final push that John Winchester never could see coming when it came to his youngest. Sam, sick of his father seeming to only care about his revenge over everything – over his own well-being, over the inclusion of his sons, over the lives they were trying to lead – finally exploded.

"You're not the only one invested in this, you know!" He took a step towards John, who stood from the truck, knowing the sharp lines of a man about to throw a punch. Sam stopped himself at the single step, but he knew the anger coursing through his veins wouldn't be held off a second time. "Jess's life, my life, Dean's life – we've all got something in this, Dad. It can't be about revenge anymore!"

"You think that's what this is?" John countered, voice raising to match Sam's. "You think stopping that yellow eyed bastard is just about avenging your mother?"

"If it isn't, then why the hell aren't you letting Dean and me in? We can help, dad, we have always been able to help. It's what you trained us for! Let us!"

John turned away from his boy, frustration clear in the taut muscles of his back. "It's too dangerous, I told you that-"

"Bullshit! I am so sick of you and Dean trying to protect me. You dragged me all over the country, raised me like a soldier, made me murder things before I was old enough to drive. I learned how to stab a werewolf in the heart before I learned about the damn birds and the bees, Dad."

John spun back around, face reddening in the face of yet another round of the same argument he'd had a thousand times with his stubborn, bleeding heart of a son. "It isn't murder. I have told you-"

"It is murder! We kill things, some of them just trying to survive!"

"Evil things!"

"Who are we to decide that?" Sam shook his head, jaw clenched. "We don't get to play God just because a demon killed your wife or my mom."

John's fists shook at his side as he loomed before his boy, despite the good half foot Sam had on him. "You watch your tone with me, boy."

"I'm not a boy," Sam bit back, matching his father's anger and intimidation step for step. "And I'm done taking orders from you."

He spun towards the house, stalking back with blood still boiling. He hadn't hit his dad, though, so that was better than some of their previous fights, at least.

"Don't you turn your back on me, Samuel!"

Of course, there was still time.

"Like you turned your back on us?" He spun on his heel, standing ground like he always had and always would against his old man. "I was dying. Where were you? We needed you, in Lawrence, in Palo Alto. So many times in the last six months. But you left us. You don't get to change that now that we have something you want. You want that gun, you want Yellow Eyes? Then you can hunt him with us. But it's Dean's gun, Dean's show. I've got nothing else to say to you."

He turned back to the house.

"Alright."

The soft admission drew him up after only a few angry steps, and he glanced back at his dad. "What?"

John, staring at the ground, shuffled uncomfortably. He raised his gaze to meet his son's, and Sam could count on one hand the times he'd seen his dad look so damn regretful. "I said alright, son. It's Dean's show."

The young hunter narrowed his eyes at the easy concession, hardly willing to trust something so simple. Not when it came to John Winchester.

"I don't like it," his dad added, and there was a hint of the miffed soldier beneath the honest-to-God father in his expression. "But I get it. I wasn't there for you boys when I should have been..."

Sam didn't move, still not daring to believe the utter one eighty. John shook his head with a heavy sigh and settled back against the old pickup. He looked damn tired, almost as tired as he'd been in Sam's first vision of him and the Baku.

"You gotta understand somethin'," he began, rubbing his palm over his thigh roughly. "When your mother…passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And all I cared about was keeping you boys safe – alive."

John nodded his head, though it hung heavy with the movement. "So, yes, I trained you. Hard. I wanted you prepared. Ready. Somewhere along the line I….I stopped being your father. I became your drill-sergeant. And when you wanted to go to school…" John huffed a breath, shaking his head side to side. "I never could accept that you and me…we're just different."

Sam stared at his dad, at the first confession he'd ever heard that they hadn't had an ideal childhood. The first time his hard-as-granite father tried to understand his world. It didn't look like it was any easier on his father than he imagined it would be.

"We're not that different," the young hunter all but whispered, a bitter grimace stretching his lips. "If Jess…if the demon had gotten to her…I think we'd be exactly the same."

It was a cold, painful confession, but one he knew was true. He had no doubt that if the yellow eyed demon had taken her away from him, like he had taken Mary away from John, he would have done anything to hunt him down and kill him, without mercy.

John lifted his head to stare at his son, eyes starting to water despite his multiple attempts to blink away the evidence. "That evil is still out there, Sammy. And it's after you now. If we can just end it…I can keep you safe, like I couldn't that night…"

The young Winchester couldn't help but see it from his father's perspective, couldn't help but empathize with the father and husband, still grieving the loss of his wife and his children's innocence. It didn't make it right, didn't fix all the wrongs, and certainly didn't change the fact that it was John Winchester who had cost his sons their childhoods, not a demon. But Sam could still sympathize with the haggard, tired figure in front of him, in a way he rarely had in his lifetime.

"It's not your job to save me from him, Dad. It's not your fault, either." Sam commented softly, the anger draining from him as quickly as it had set in. "It won't end with him."

"I know…I know, I can't-" John had to look away, fisting his hand in the material of his jeans like it was that was grounding him. "I can't see any further right now, son. It has to end with him, because otherwise I don't know what to do."

Sam crossed the space between them to resettle against the truck beside his father. "We'll face it, together. One obstacle at a time. We can do this, dad, we'll use the gun together, and then we tackle whatever comes next. We can end it, as a family."

His dad stared at him with as close to pride as Sam had ever seen in his father's eyes. That look was usually saved for Dean, and the young hunter had mixed emotions suddenly seeing it now. But John nodded and dropped his gaze. He didn't agree or make any promises, which didn't escape Sam's notice, but he didn't fight anymore either.

Father and son sat in a rare peace in the South Dakota morning sun, and John soon asked him about Jess. Sam's anger and worries were almost forgotten as he tried not to gush about the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, and who he still hoped to one day marry. The smile on his dad's face was one he'd never forget.

-o-o-o-

Bobby waited till he was sure Sam was out of earshot before he pinned Dean with a look.

"Alright, spill it, Future Boy."

The boy spared him a half-assed glare of his own before shifting, uncomfortable, in the kitchen chair. He glanced at the back door, then Bobby, then the door again.

"Not now. They could come back any minute, alright?"

Bobby shook his head. "That's your brother and father out there, son. You know sure as I do we'll hear the end of that conversation long before they make it to the door."

Dean shifted again, but couldn't argue the truth of it. Bobby leaned across the table, elbows supporting his weight as he regarded his surrogate son with a stare he couldn't avoid any longer,

"So spill."

Dean pealed at the label of an old beer bottle while Bobby sat across from him in silence, growing ever more impatient with each tick of the kitchen clock. Finally, he rolled his eyes with a huff, climbed up from his chair, and crossed over to the fridge. He returned with two beers in hand, clunking one down pointedly in front of his surrogate son.

When he sat down across from the man again and still only silence filled the space in front of them, he cleared his throat. "You waiting on a Christmas card, or something?"

"I don't know where to start." The confession was immediate, but quiet. Bobby had to take a moment to appreciate the gravity of the situation in front of him. His kid, the loud mouthed boy he'd helped raise from training wheels all the way up to shotguns, not knowing what to say. His time-traveling, snarky ass boy.

Bobby dragged his hat from his head, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and took a deep breath. When exactly had he become a damn den mother?

"The beginnin's usually a sound place," the older hunter snarked. Catching his surrogate son's expression – half glare, half pained grimace – he sobered. "Maybe start with whatever climbed up your butt concerning your daddy."

"Thanks for the mental image, Bobby." Dean's look definitely turned more glare. But he set the beer aside with a deep breath. "He lied – is lying – about…almost everything. He knew about Azazel, about what he did to Sam and the demon blood-"

"Demon blood?" The look on Bobby's face clearly said he was already regretting starting this conversation. Dean had half a mind to shove it in his face, because yeah.

Instead, the elder Winchester closed his eyes, counted to ten (it didn't help), sat back and settled an intense gaze on his friend and father. "Six months ago, an angel sent me back in time from the year 2016."

Bobby, who had sort of hoped this was all still some weird joke or a really bad joke, blew out a long breath. He went for the beer he hadn't bothered opening for himself, popped the top and took a long, hardy swallow. He cleared his throat awkwardly when he'd finished, his son still staring at him. The hunter shrugged awkwardly in the face of that foreign, intense gaze. "Balls."

Dean couldn't help it, he shook his head as his face broke into a grin. "That's all you gotta say? I just told you I traveled back in time ten years!"

"What do you want me to say?" Bobby repeated his awkward shrug. "You know who wins the Super Bowl?"

The younger hunter full on laughed that time. Leave it to Bobby Singer, father of idjits, to greet his first time traveler with the severity appropriate to the situation. There were many reasons Dean thought of this man as more of a dad than his own. The thought – the reminder of both deaths to come, one significantly sooner than the other – sobered him damn quick.

The change of mood in the kitchen wasn't hard to catch on to, and Bobby set his beer back on the table. "Alright. I want all of it. Don't sugar coat it."

Dean caught his gaze, frowning.

"Start at the top, ya idjit. Lay it out for me." Bobby stood from the table. "I'll get some paper, we'll write it down and…I don't know. Figure it out, I guess."

The man from the future stared up at his friend with the same awe he'd always felt in the tenacious, older hunter's presence. He had to blink away the water in his eyes as he realized how much he'd missed that man. Damn emotions. Instead, he grinned up Bobby, the man he went to when he had to talk to someone, to work things out, to be less alone. The surrogate father who had been just as inaccessible these past six months as he had been for the last four years. Far too long, in either case.

"Man, Bobby, I missed you." He said it with a light chuckle and a sip of his beer. The heavy, awkward silence that followed clued Dean in before he'd finished swallowing. Bobby was staring at him with shell-shocked eyes and a slack jaw. Dean almost choked on his beer when he caught the look, realizing what he'd said.

Shit.

Bobby's jaw clacked shut. "I don't wanna know."

He turned into the study to fetch that paper, shaking his head and repeating it more for his own sake. "I don't want to know."

-o-o-o-

When he sat back down, legal pad and pen in hand, Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to assuage the ten year expiration date he'd just inadvertently informed his father figure of. "It's not gonna happen this time."

Bobby pinned him with a look he had seen few times. It quelled monsters and Winchesters alike; few dared speak in the face of it. "I don't. Want. To know."

Dean nodded and went back to chugging the last of his beer. He had a feeling there would be several more before this conversation was over.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 23

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"So…"

The two sat awkwardly as Bobby tapped the pen against the legal pad and Dean stared at his beer as if everything could be blamed on the poor bottle of suds.

"Angels?"

God, Dean did not want to have this conversation. No matter how well Bobby was handling it, talking about what was coming meant dredging up so many bad memories. Memories that the hunter now felt he was pretty much damned to relive. Dean glanced up and, with a monumental effort of sucking it up, straightened from his abysmal slouch in the chair. "Yeah. Angels."

"Let me guess. Cass?"

The hunter raised his eyebrows, but didn't look too surprised.

"Sam had me looking into him," Bobby explained with a shrug. Which, yeah, Dean had sort of figured. "Can't say I'd have ever gotten to angels on nothing more to go on than black hair and blue eyes."

Dean practically choked, coughing around the mouthful of beer as he hacked at his chest. "What? H-how?"

Bobby looked torn between answering and making sure the kid wasn't about to swallow his own esophagus, giving him plenty of time to realize the answer on his own. Missouri Mosley. She was the only one who could have glimpsed Cas from his head. Damn that woman. But of course, it was probably his genius little brother who'd put it together, asked the right questions, and refused to let it drop without answers.

"That kid," he muttered, ever amazed by his brother's tenacity.

"Tell me about it," Bobby chucked out in agreement. "So, this 'Cass'…He one of the good guys?"

"Uh….yeah." Dean cleared his throat, pulling his thoughts away from his brother. "Castiel, holy tax accountant of the Lord. He might have started on the wrong side of things but…yeah, he's one of the good guys."

"Tax accountant?" It was Bobby's turn to stare at him with raised eyebrows.

Dean let out a laugh, taking a swig from his beer. "He was a total nerd angel."

The older hunter didn't miss the bitterness that filled that chuckle, or the way that despite the evident pain in his boy's face, Dean was still smiling almost nostalgically at the thought of this Castiel. It was damn weird to see the boy who followed in his father's black and white footsteps get that kind of look on his face talking about something very much not human.

"'Was'?"

The smile on his face dropped pretty quickly, and Bobby almost felt bad about it. There was something about this Dean, this kid from the future, that made the older hunter wonder just how often he got to smile in his world.

"Yeah." Dean's eyes strayed down to the bottle in his hands and stayed there, though it was obvious from the pained glaze in them that he was seeing anything but Bobby Singer's kitchen. "He was hurt pretty bad when he sent me back. I don't think- I don't know if he made it."

It was the truth, too. Every time Cas popped up in his dreams, at the lake or pulling him out to save Bobby, Dean was sure. He was sure that at least some part of the angel had made it back in time with him. But there was no consistency – the guy didn't come when Dean called for him, begged for him. The hunter went to sleep praying to dream and usually got nothing. He more often showed back up when Dean or Sammy or Bobby were in danger, but even that was inconsistent. The guy just seemed to pop up randomly.

If that jackass was pulling another 'stay away to protect you/lead a normal life/it's not my place' crap move, Dean was going to have serious words when he finally caught the bastard.

"You got something making you think he did?" Dean glanced back at Bobby, distracted by his own thoughts. The confusion on his face was must have been clear enough for the old hunter to add, "You said you weren't sure. Could he have made the jump with you? Not that I know how time travel works but…did you need a co-pilot?"

Dean swallowed, dropping his eyes again. God, he didn't want to have this conversation! His first thought was Cas would have made the jump if he could have; he wouldn't have left him alone in this. But…was that even right?

They hadn't exactly been on great terms before the end, and Cas had picked up that nasty martyr complex from the Winchester boys pretty damn quickly. Stay behind, hold them off. He'd been doing that well before two human hunters tried to teach him humanity and royally screwed it up several times over.

Back in that graveyard, he had been hurt bad – how bad, Dean couldn't be sure – but he'd seen the look in his eye, known that final good luck that was really goodbye. It was entirely possible Cas just didn't have the juice to do more than send him back. His grace shredded, possibly on lockdown from Lucifer, all but a step away from mortal before it all started….

The last time he'd been that weak, sending Dean and Sam back had been ugly and left him laid up for days. To be truthful, Dean had been working pretty hard avoiding thinking about it. About what that same act would cost the angel when you added 'fatal wound' to the equation.

He cleared his throat. "I've been seeing him. In, uh…in dreams."

"Yer psychic dreams?"

Dean pinned Bobby with a look that said don't push it. The old man new damn well those dreams had been a cover the entire time, if that sarcastic comment was anything to go by. Not that Dean could blame him, given how much lying he'd been doing to his family lately.

"Sam's dreams a lie too?"

"No, he's really having visions. Azazel's causing them." Dean scrubbed at his face and ended up burying his head in his hand, propped up on the kitchen table. How the hell was he going to explain all of this? There was just too much.

"One step at a time, son. Go back to yer angel."

"He's not my angel," the elder Winchester quipped back. "Why does everyone always call him that?"

Bobby wisely declined to answer, though the smile on the kid's face the first time he brought him up and the devastation he carried all over him when talking about his death seemed pretty damn conclusive to him and, he suspected, everyone else.

Dean Winchester, closet gay for an Angel of the Lord. Well alright then.

"He used to show up in my dreams when he needed to talk. Or if he couldn't find me." Dean said it like he knew how crazy it sounded, how crazy all of this sounded. Bobby tried really hard not to react with the appropriate level of crazy that this all really, really was.

"Right." Okay, so there was at least some judgement there, despite his best attempts. When Dean leveled a look at him, he cleared his throat and moved on. "What makes you think it ain't him, then?"

"Because I'm pretty sure he's dead," the man from the future answered bitterly. "Time travel…he did it once before, when he was weak. Bobby, it almost killed him. He was spitting up blood for days."

Dean shook his head at the memory of the angel popping back into existence hours after he should have, spouting red and genuine surprise to still be alive. "Besides, it's not…it's not the Cas I know. It's like…a memory of him."

At his friend's confused look, he clarified, "He was always awkward as hell with pop culture, references, stuff like that. You know, basically humanity. But he was getting there. Even started binging Netflix."

Bobby frowned. "What's Netflix?"

Dean stared at him for only a moment. "Son of a bitch." He pointed his beer bottle at the confused hunter. "The past sucks, you know that?"

When Bobby gave him the stink eye at his unhelpfulness, he settled down and continued, "Point is, that Cas isn't the one showing up in my dreams."

"Who else could it be, then?"

Bobby wasn't trying to cause trouble, Dean knew that, but the question still rankled him. It wasn't anyone. It was his own mind, supplying his lonely, broken self with his best friend. But that….that wasn't right either. Because his own mind couldn't kick him out of his own subconscious when Dream Root had him securely under. It couldn't warn him of impending attacks, either, which Cas had done more than once now. Meg showing up early, that possessed Jehovah's Witness back when they still had Jess with them. He'd woken up shortly before each of them had made an appearance, immediately after a push from the dream angel.

Dean's instincts were good, but they weren't that good. Which left a very different version of Castiel as the only possibility. Not that that made much sense either.

"He still exists in this timeline, probably up in Heaven right now. But that Cas doesn't have a clue who I am yet." Dean met Bobby's gaze, the clear confusion in his own eyes hoping someone, anyone, could make sense of all this. "We don't meet for another two, three years. He's definitely not dream-hopping through my noggin."

"But you're seeing him."

"Yeah, but I just told you, it can't be him,"

"Unless he took that DeLorean ride with you." Bobby shrugged. "Maybe some parts got left behind."

Dean didn't answer, staring at the table top. Obviously, the thought had occurred to him enough to break down and pray, to plead for him to answer, to be alive and here, however weak or broken.

Cursed or not.

But he'd gone down that road before, lost the angel so many times and hoped so often he'd be back. He knew what false hope got him, and this time he didn't have Sam to talk him off the ledge of utter reckless stupidity he ran along anytime he lost the two important people he had left. So he was trying really hard not to hope at all.

"What's he saying in these dreams of yers?"

Thankful for the change of subject, however minor, Dean replied, "That I'm changing too much."

Bobby frowned and glanced down at the still blank legal pad sitting in front of him. "What have you changed?"

"Jess is alive." Dean's voice broke halfway through, but he cleared his throat and the two hunters did as all manly men do: they pretended it hadn't happened. Instead, Bobby met his emotional gaze with surprise and so many questions. "Brady killed her that night in Stanford, on Azazel's orders. Burned her on the ceiling, like…like mom."

"Jesus," Bobby breathed out, glancing back down at the paper. His eyes snapped back to the kid. "Sam?"

"Got back into hunting purely on revenge." Dean shook his head. "He was just as bad as dad…angry, reckless….He never saw what was coming. None of us did."

God, Bobby didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to ask. But if the dread pooling in his stomach was any indication, it was worse for the kid sitting across from him. "And what's coming?"

"The apocalypse."

-o-o-o-

Bobby cleared his throat, chugged half the fresh beer Dean had pulled from the fridge in the silence that had followed that bombshell, then cleared his throat again. "So…the end of the world. Right. That why yer angel sent you back?"

Dean actually laughed, causing the older hunter's eyebrows to climb right into his receding hairline. "No," he answered with a jaded grin. "Not even close. We beat the apocalypse, and the angels that tried to restart it, and the mother of monsters that came afterwards, and Abbadon, and every other piece of crap life tried to throw at us."

The hunter realized his chest was tight, almost to the point of pain, and he was having trouble taking deep breaths, possibly because he hadn't actually taken one throughout the building rant and accompanying anxiety it came with. God, they were going to have to face that all again. His hand ached where it sat on his thigh in a tightly clenched fist. It took a moment, but he released the tension with a shaky breath. There was so much crap coming, so much he had to stop, and he couldn't even fix the friggin' apocalypse.

Bobby was staring at him again with wide eyes, probably having gotten about a quarter of that vitriol. This was going about as well as he figured it would.

"Alright…" he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. What would future Sam do? He was the one good with words. "Let's….let's start from the beginning."

-o-o-o-

The beginning was actually the end in this case.

"So, this darkness, God's sister…that's why yer angel sent you back?"

Dean scrubbed at his face. He'd given the old hunter a monumentally minimalistic rundown of Amara breaking free of her binds – conveniently leaving out what exactly her prison had been or just who released it and how – and finishing with him and Sam and Cas taking her on alongside God.

He left the whole Lucifer bit out, too. They so weren't ready for that.

"He's not my angel. But, yeah. Don't- Don't worry about it, it's not going to happen this time." Bobby raised a brow and Dean couldn't quite look him in the eye at the utter lack of belief there. He tried not to take it personally. Bobby was practical, and always operated with a backup plan. Dean was more of a….edge of the seat, seat of his pants, plans are for sissies kind of hunter. At least, when he didn't have a plan or a brother to make up a plan, that's how he rolled.

And right now, he didn't have crap amounting to anything close to a plan.

"It's not," he reiterated with some stress on the negative. "But if things go that way – and that's a long way off – I'll tell you everything. I swear."

The old hunter didn't look impressed, but he didn't press it. He was starting to get the feeling that if they covered everything in detail, they'd never get it all down.

"So this darkness was about to win-"

"No, she was gonna lose." Dean could still feel her pain just under his skin. Her anger and, worse, regret. She'd only wanted a family. The love of the those who were supposed to love you. Yeah, she hadn't gone about it the best way, but Dean could relate only too well. "It didn't matter – it was already too late. Sam was gone. Cas was as good as dead. He used the last of what he had to send me back, I think. I don't even know if he meant to go this far."

Because time travel wasn't easy on a drained, hurting angel. Who knew what Cas's intentions had been. To send him back further, before any of it so he could stop all of it, or to drop him exactly where he had. Cas had always known more about the connections of events and the flow of time better than any of them.

Dean had four trips under his belt and still no friggin' clue about that crap, so who was to say Cas hadn't meant to come back with him too. Sure as hell would have been easier if he had.

"And that's ten years from now?"

"Closer to eleven," he answered easily, rubbing a hand through his short hair. He blew out a breath, covered it with a swig of beer, and tried to keep going. "The next, uh…the next five years are what we have to stop, though. The rest of it…. We'll deal with it when we get there."

Again, Bobby didn't look convinced, but didn't push either. He settled back in his chair. "Right. So. The apocalypse?"

-o-o-o-

"Should we go check on them or something? They're too quiet." Dean was standing at the back door, trying to spot his father and brother. They'd heard some yelling, as expected, but then nothing had followed it. No angry Samsqatch stomps, no furious venting from John. Dean was starting to worry they'd actually murdered each other.

"Leave them be and stop puttin' this off." Bobby gave him the stink eye, calling him out on exactly what he was doing. "The apocalypse."

Dean sighed and sat back down.

-o-o-o-

"Azazel wants Sam for what?"

Dean stood up and got them another round of beers. Bobby chugged half his in a single go.

-o-o-o-

"So…uh…Lucifer."

"Yeah, Lucifer." Dean muttered, looking down at the tabletop beneath his rough fingertips. He pushed back in his chair, leaning on the back two legs as he raised his gaze to the ceiling. "It's not just him, though. Angels want the showdown too. They aren't going to do dick to stop it."

"Showdown?" Bobby was staring at him. He was getting the feeling that expression was going to be the new norm for a while.

"Michael and Lucifer. Heaven, Hell; the ultimate Deathmatch. Winner takes the planet. Or whatever's left of it."

"…Shit."

"Yeah. I haven't gotten to the best part. Angel's need vessels, like I said. For Lucifer, that's Sam."

"Right, that's why the yellow eyed- why Azazel is prepping him with demon blood." Across from him, Bobby's brow furled. "Who ends up taking Michael to the prom, then?"

Dean just stared at him until the old man got it. It wasn't a pretty reaction when he did.

-o-o-o-

"Back up, boy, you're going too fast." The old hunter grumbled as he scribbled an endless vitriol of death and pain and pure ugliness on his legal pad. They were already several pages deep, about equal to the rounds of beer they'd both had. It helped take the edge of the crazy. Not to mention the insurmountable.

Dean scrubbed at his scalp. "Back up to where, Bobby?"

"The seals. You said there are a butt-ton of them-"

"Six hundred and sixty-six."

"-but you skipped over what that first one was. It has to be popped first, like you said, right? So….we stop that one from breaking, we're scott free, ain't we?"

Dean chewed on his lip, a pretty damn foreign act for him, born out of the very rare, white-knuckled grip his brain was trying to have on his tongue right now. God, why did they have to have this conversation! He blew out a breath.

"Yeah…about that."

-o-o-o-

"You did WHAT?!"

"He was dead, Bobby! I had to save him!"

"People DIE, boy. It's what HAPPENS."

"Not Sammy. I won't let it."

The room fell silent. Bobby, red faced, stared at the obstinate man in front of him. Dean's fists were clenched around a bottle, eyes threatening the older hunter to push this.

"Balls." Bobby sat back, the wind in his sails depleting with the look in his son's eyes. "You're gonna do it again."

He shook his head when Dean couldn't meet his eye.

"I'm going to stop it," the young man confessed quietly, but with the kind of determination only a Winchester was capable of.

"You gotta let him go, son," Bobby whispered automatically and green eyes glanced briefly up to his. "If it comes to that, if we can't stop it…. Sam wouldn't want you to start the end of the world. To go to hell. Not for him."

"I know," was the only reply he got, muttered almost blankly from a boy who couldn't look him in the eye as he said it. "I know, Bobby."

-o-o-o-

Dean was able to remember a handful of the seals Hell had broken, as most of the battles for those had been fought between angels and demons. Of course, they hadn't learned until later that most of it as a show, with Heaven putting up a good act but purposefully throwing in the towel where it was needed.

Not that it mattered, he'd insisted to the older hunter as Bobby furiously scribbled down what he could from Dean's story. There were so many seals that anything they did to protect them would be futile. Hell would just go after the other seals, even if they were the harder ones to break. And a handful of humans couldn't protect all six hundred of them without Heaven's help, which they weren't going to get.

"All the more reason not to let that first one break, boy," Bobby muttered with a purposeful look in the kid's direction. Dean didn't bother answering.

They were just getting through an abridged version of the year after Dean had been pulled from Hell by Castiel, culminating in that horrid night in the church, chasing after his blood-addicted brother, when they heard Sam and John coming back towards the house. Dean's mouth snapped shut tighter than a virgin's legs at an orgy and Bobby spared him a warning look. They were not done talking about this. Not only did the boy have a hell of a story to finish, the old hunter knew he'd left some serious details out, if the guilt-ridden gaze avoiding him several times throughout the hour-long, heavily-truncated tale was anything to go by.

Bobby tucked the legal pad off to the side, hidden beside the multiple landlines labeled for various agencies. The back door opened seconds later.

"Hey," Sam greeted as he came back in, a rare smile on his face after a conversation with his father. Even John seemed somewhat at ease as he came into the kitchen behind his youngest. Sam eyed the kitchen table, littered with a dozen beer bottles. "Uh…little early, guys, don't you think?"

Dean snorted, then wrapped his hand over his mouth and stared moodily down at the table. His brother gave him a weird look – something between concern and the infamous bitchface – before looking at Bobby for a hint. The old hunter just shrugged.

"Been a long week."

Sam huffed in complete disbelief, but the issue was dropped for the time being. Unfortunately, all that left was the silence in the room quickly escalating in tension. Dean refused to look at his father, Bobby was staring up at the corner of the ceiling as if the cobwebs up there were the most interesting thing he'd seen in a couple years, and Sam was caught between confusion and loss.

He really wasn't used to being the one in these situations. Sam figured he might just owe Dean an apology for all the times he had to play mediator in the family.

"Look, Dean, I'm….I'm sorry." John cleared his throat as he addressed his oldest, avoiding looking at the kid as much as the kid was avoiding looking at him. "I…I shouldn't have demanded the gun, or shut you boys out. I just…"

John cast his eyes upward, as if praying for strength from a God he didn't believe in and would probably try to kill if he ever met. Dean would probably put his money on John Winchester, knowing Chuck as he did.

"You're my children, and this demon is a bad son of a bitch. I can't make the same moves if I'm worried about keeping you safe."

Dean's grip on the beer in his hand, empty now, tightened as he listened to the words he'd heard before. The same comment – reconciliation, really – that had happened between their small, broken family all of forty-eight hours before it got even more broken. John had said the same words not two days before he made that deal and died.

Damn it, don't let it be now. Not now. It was too soon, he should have months left.

"I don't expect to make it out of this in one piece," John was saying, shaking his head as he looked at an increasingly distressed Sam. "Your mother's death almost killed me. I can't lose you boys too."

The man from the future stood from the table quickly enough and with enough force to send it skidding a half foot back, rattling the empty bottles and knocking several of them over. Bobby caught one before it could roll of the table and shatter on the floor.

"And what about what we lose, huh? You're going to throw yourself in front of this, but it's gonna be me and Sam who bury you!"

Again, Sammy stared at his brother, knowing Dean wasn't talking in hypotheticals. The man standing in front of him had buried their father. Knowing their line of work, he'd probably burned him, actually. Sam ducked his head, unable to look into those angry eyes furiously blinking away tears. They shouldn't being having this conversation with Dean half drunk.

"What do you want me to say, son?" John shrugged his arms helplessly. "Killing this thing comes before everything. Before you, me, Sammy. Everything."

Dean's jaw creaked under the pressure of his anger.

"Dad," Sam cut in quietly, turning his pleading gaze to his father. "I don't want to watch you burn."

The sudden drop of color from John's face was testament to the effect his youngest son's words had on him.

"I wasn't old enough for mom…" Sam glanced at his brother, who was looking away now, trying to contain the anger and grief that had him seeing red. The youngest Winchester turned back to his father. "Don't make us bury, too."

Bobby watched the three Winchesters cautiously. His thoughts were right with Sam's, despite having actual confirmation from the kid across from him that John's days were numbered. But he knew the man, almost as well as his sons did, and he didn't see the hunter giving this up for anything.

"Three Winchesters are better than one," Sam insisted. "We need to do this together."

John finally dropped the tension in his shoulders, his body sagging with the weight of the last twenty two years. He was so damn tired, and just wanted this over.

"Okay," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Okay, together."

At the table, Dean let out a silent breath, the rage filling the lines of his body fading slowly, as if he didn't trust the sudden truce. He spared his father a cursory glance, and the older hunter nodded firmly at him. Dean didn't say anything, but he returned the gesture with only a slight hesitation.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 24

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The rest of the day passed almost like a normal family. They sat and talked like a normal family, caught up on their lives like a normal family. Sure, the topics of choice weren't exactly normal. Taking down an urban legend or shapeshifter were hardly common dinner topics, but still, for the Winchesters it was approaching dangerously normal.

Which is why there was no way it could last.

"How did you know it was a Baku?" John eventually asked as they circled topics, starting with their frankly miraculous save of Jess and the Moore family. Dean hadn't volunteered much information, letting Sam tell most of the stories with minimal input supplied by the man from the future. But it was obvious with every adventure or nightmare they recapped that there was a running them of one thing missing from each: information and where they got it.

"Uh…" Sam glanced at Dean, unsure what to say. His older brother didn't look particularly helpful, expression already growing stormy. The younger Winchester swallowed, looking down at his hands resting in his laps as he sat on the old, sagging couch. He knew they would have to tell their father eventually, but he'd sort of hoped Dean would provide more support than a brooding figure in the corner of the room. "I had a vision."

John straightened, brow furling as he stared at his youngest boy. When he spoke, his voice was that terrifying flat tone that always proceeded bad memories for both boys. "A vision."

"He's been getting them since Palo Alto," Bobby chimed in from his desk, purposefully keeping his tone nonchalant, like it was old news. In truth, the three men around John Winchester were watching him with the tension of skilled animal wrangler who knew, despite years of practice, that what he was approaching was still a pissed off lion. No matter how experienced you were in handling that beast, it was always going to get in a few good swipes.

"They, uh…they happen randomly, far as we can tell. First, it was nightmares, but now they happen during the day, too. Whatever I see always seems to come true, pretty reliably." Sam shrugged, trying not to feel small under the eye of his father, who somehow always made him feel like that. For the most part, it resulted in anger and defensiveness that bordered on the dramatic. But it always started with that feeling of being too small, too disappointing, to ever be a worthy son to the man across the table from him. "We don't really know what they mean."

Their father stood in terrifying silence, turning his back on his family as he ran a hand down his mouth. It was only a moment as he crossed the room, almost pacing, before he turned back around, but the tension in the room made it feel much, much longer. John leveled his boys with a hell of a glare, settling on his oldest. "Something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me."

Dean, who remembered this conversation well enough to know he had no interest in repeating it, opened his mouth for a lashing of his own. The last time they'd had this talk, he'd finally stepped out of his soldier mold, finally stood up for the brother who cared about him a hell of a lot more than his dad did. He wasn't the good little soldier his father had raised anymore; that kid had died in Hell a long, long time ago.

"Call you?" Sam stood up from the couch to meet John's height. Dean blinked, looking over at his younger brother who beat him to the punch. "Like Dean called you when I was dying? Like I called you from Lawrence?"

The older of the two brother's turned his head at that, eyebrows raised. "What?"

For a moment, Dean panicked, thinking of the cosmic consequences of John Winchester showing up in Lawrence with a bossy psychic already reading too much off of the man from the future. But he pretty quickly remembered he'd called John the first time around, and it wasn't like the man had shown up back then, either.

Sam trucked on right ahead, ignoring his brother. "All we ever do is call you! We called you when we found a demon who wanted to murder my girlfriend on the anniversary of mom's death! We called you when Yellow Eyes agreed to spare her if I kept hunting. We called you when we knew a Baku was on your tail. Don't bother lecturing us for not telling you about the least crappy of all the cards we've been dealt lately!"

Dean stared at his brother, eyebrows raised to his hairline and the corner of his lip pulling up as he, for possibly the first time in his life, watched his brother yell at his father and felt nothing but pride. He turned his green gaze back to John Winchester with a clear look of 'what he said.'

Their dad frowned between the both of them, but finally settled back into the kitchen chair they'd dragged to the edge of the den hours ago. He was silent for a moment, head hung, before he nodded. He glanced up to meet is youngest son's fiery gaze. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Sam glanced at his older brother, who gave him a miniscule nod, and took his own seat. Bobby, eyebrows raised as high as Dean's, glanced between the three Winchesters.

"Well, now that that's off yer chests," he pulled his feet off the edge of his desk and straightened up. "How about you tell a story of your own, John. Like how you knew the thing chasing after you and yer boys was a demon. Last time I saw you, ya still didn't know squat about that yellowed eyed bastard."

The grizzled father sat in a contemplative silence for a moment. With a slow nod, he raised his eyes to his sons, and began. "Truth is, he hadn't shown himself in twenty years. Our whole lives we searched for this demon, right? Not a trace. Just…nothing."

"Till you caught his trail," Dean added, remembering the spread of research his father had presented them the first time he'd finally agreed to work with them.

"No," John huffed out, the sound self-deprecating. Both his boys frowned at him. "Not at first. I was on a hunt in Arizona six months ago. There was signs worth checking out: odd weather, crop failure, livestock mutilation, that sort of thing."

"Demonic omens."

John nodded at his youngest. "Yeah. I thought it was a run-of-the-mill demon hunt. Rare, but not unheard of. At least, until I got there. There'd been a fire the night before. It was a small town, so it was the talk of it. Only one room in the house had burned."

"The nursery." Dean's quite confirmation was the loudest thing in the tense room. John nodded, regret flickering through his hard eyes.

"And it took the mother with it."

"Just like us…" Sam stared at their dad. Realization was starting to settle over his features.

"The kid was six months old, to the day." John continued, glancing to his youngest as he started putting the pieces together. "Just like you were, Sammy."

"I was?"

Their dad nodded, turning his gaze down to his hands as they rested on his legs. "So I knew what it was. A demon. More importantly, that bastard was back. After all this time… I started looking for other signs. I looked back through the weather readouts for Lawrence and sure enough…"

Sam exchanged a look with Dean, though they both already knew what was coming.

"There were signs a couple days before your mother..." John let out a loose breath, a reminder to the two boys that their father was still mourning the death of his wife. "I chased the thing across half the damn country, following omens from one town to the next. I never made in time to save any of them."

The confession was weighed with the same guilt he'd spoken out in the salvage yard, admitting his failure as a father to his youngest son, who had never seen it that way and never would. John was many things, had made many mistakes, but what happened to their family that night had never been on him.

Sam swallowed, trying to remind himself it wasn't on him, either. "Every time, there was a fire?"

John shook his head. "No. Sometimes there was nothing. All the omens, but no house fires, no deaths."

Dean pushed himself off the wall, uncrossing his arms. "He only kills the parents if they interrupt him."

John's gaze followed his oldest son like a hawk, eyes narrowed. Sam, on the other hand, glanced at his brother in surprise.

"Interrupt him?" He frowned for a moment, before Dean caught his gaze. Sam stiffened, memory flashing back to that church and the empty jar in the mud. He looked away, self-loathing eating away at his expression and his insides. "You mean the blood."

John nodded, albeit slowly. "That's right. Far as I can tell, there are other kids out there; kids the demon did something to who still have both parents. Lead normal lives. But they're not exactly normal."

Sam worked hard to quash the flare of jealousy his dad's words immediately sparked within his soul. "How many are there?"

Their dad shook his head. "It's impossible to know. Two dozen, maybe more. Who knows how long he's been doing this."

"We need to find them." Sam shifted almost urgently. "If there are more kids out there like me, with visions or- or powers, we need to find them. Try to help them!"

John was already shaking his head, but Sam pushed on. "If Yellow Eyes did something to them…they could be experiencing things too. He said we were part of a…race. A game or something that demons were betting on. If there are more kids out there, we need to save them!"

Dean saw the way his father's head snapped to his youngest son at the revelation. The man from the future immediately tensed. John hadn't known that last time. At least, he didn't think he had. Dean honestly didn't know how deep John's knowledge of Azazel's plan went. He was pretty sure his dad hadn't know about the apocalypse. It had been kept too under wraps, not to mention John would never have left his boys to face it. Dean didn't waste time conjecturing whether John would have stuck around out of love, patriarchal obligation, or just being a control freak who didn't trust anyone else to handle a problem that big.

But Bobby was already talking it through for them, and with a hell of a lot more reason than John Winchester. "Only problem there, is there's no way of trackin' 'em. We could probably find the ones that had house fires as kids, but if this thing didn't leave signs on every stop, it'd be a crapshoot guessing which kid he messed with twenty years later. We'd be up to our eyeballs in research that could take years to lead anywhere."

"We don't have years," Dean bit back, with some confidence that that was exactly where Bobby had been leading. Not that it would hurt to track down Azazel's other kids. They could stop a lot of pain, everything from warning them about the Battle Royale to come, to stopping Azazel from hurting future kids.

Dean's brain paused on the thought, having never given it time before. What did happen to those kids Azazel had been infecting in 2005 and 2006? They would be too young to participate in the free-for-all to be Lucifer's vessel. They were too young for anything.

Had the yellow eyed bastard popped back up just to catch Sam and John's attention? Or had he been turning more children for a purpose? In the years after the apocalypse, they'd never run into a psychic child. Would their powers even activate without Azazel's presence? Or had other hunters found them taken care of it? It wasn't the kid's fault, but a lot them had turned into killers.

Suddenly, Dean wished he'd followed up on it a little more. He made a mental note, adding it to the ever growing list of shit they would need to deal with.

"They're not a priority," John insisted, staring at Sam. "We'll deal with 'em after, but right now, we focus on Yellow Eyes. He comes before everything else."

Dean's head twitched slightly at his father's words, at a memory he couldn't grasp, but he knew he'd heard before. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving him with an uneasy feeling, but nothing he could do about it.

"But, Dad, these kids-"

"I told you, we'll deal with them later."

The harsh finality of John Winchester's tone is what finally clued Dean in to the memory flickering at the edges of his mind.

"Deal with them?" He took a step towards his father. His brain was filling with images of those kids who'd never stood a chance, whose deaths had been written for them ten years before they were even born. Andy and Ava. Gordon coming after Sam. His brother sinking to his knees in Colorado, the ghost of a knife sticking out of his back. Even Jake What's-his-name didn't deserve what John Winchester would deal out to him in the name of human justice and protecting the world.

No, life wasn't that black and white anymore. It never had been. And you didn't kill kids for the shit lemons life handed them.

More to the point, what exactly would John decide to do to his own son? Because Dean remembered the last thing John Winchester had said to him. The hunter remembered, vividly, every time his dad told him to take care of Sammy. How John had raised him to take care of his little brother. He remembered each time he'd been yelled at, screamed at, reprimanded and brought down. The disappointment in his dad's eyes. The anger in his voice. That one time when John got too drunk and struck him for letting Sammy run off to a cabin and a friggin' dog. It was always watch Sam, protect Sam. Save Sam.

And the last words Dad ever said to him, telling him to kill the one thing Dean had formed his entire life around. The one person who kept Dean going, no matter how dark it got, no matter how much he hated himself.

To do the one thing John Winchester had raised him to never let happen.

"How exactly are we going to deal with them, Dad? Where do kids with demon blood in them fall on your black and white scale of the world? You gonna deal with Sammy after you've dealt with all of them?"

"Dean!" Bobby barked harshly, warning the kid he was approaching a line. But Dean didn't stop there.

"Let me guess. If you can't save 'em, well, we'll just have to kill 'em, huh? That your grand, master plan?"

"Dean…" Sam sat, shocked, staring at his big brother who had switched, once more, into that cold, hard killer he'd seen a handful of times over the last six months. The man who was probably from the future, who had seen things that had frozen him over, turned him dark and dangerous. This Dean had killed, of that Sam had no doubt. And not monsters, not the things that went bump in the night that needed to be put down. No, this version of his brother had done things a lot darker than try and save the world one monster at a time.

John shoved himself up from his chair, knocking it over in the process as he matched his son's aggressive stance, tension-filled inch for inch. One hand hovered on the gun he kept in the waistline of his pants. Even in Bobby Singer's house, John did not go unarmed. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you are not my son."

"Dad," Sam immediately cautioned, eyes darting to the hand wrapped around the butt of a handgun. John Winchester wouldn't really shoot his son, would he?

….He would if he thought Dean was a monster.

Sam swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat and the dryness pervading his entire mouth. Well, he had been asking himself for a week now where he stood on the line between human and other. What his father would do once he learned that information.

Guess he'd just answered his own question.

"No, I'm not your soldier," Dean barked back, placing his hands on the table with rigid arms and locked elbows. He looked like an animal about to pounce. "I stopped being that man when I realized just how much you lied to us – kept from us. You're right; I'm not the Dean you know. I'm not the good little soldier anymore. But I'm still your son."

The hunter shoved away from the table, green eyes lit with a fire forged by ten years that no one in that room could ever understand. Dean jabbed his finger in Sam's direction. "And so is he, demon blood or not."

Then he marched himself straight out of the kitchen, through the backdoor and into the salvage yard before he could do worse to his dad than just yelling. He left behind a room full of stunned family who had never yet heard the eldest Winchester boy talk to John that way.

Bobby was the first to finally react, clearing his throat in the awkward, tense silence.

"I'll go after the idjit," he mumbled, but his trademark insult lacked the usual fondness and levity it often brought.

Sam and John were silent as Bobby followed the volatile hunter out into the yard. John was still fuming, red in the face and hand gripped tight atop the butt of his gun. Sam didn't think he would exactly be the calming force in any discussion between them, so he chose not to speak. He was still reeling from his brother's words and what they implied. Lucky for him, John stormed off on his own after several aborted steps, one towards the back door, then the den, then the back door again. When he finally left in a huff, it was in the direction opposite of his oldest son.

-o-o-o-

Dean was angry. Angrier than he thought he would be. His dad's death had been hard. Devastating, really. It had changed his entire world and had been the first crack across a soon to be broken man. But none of that compared to having his father tell him – expect him – to do the one thing he just couldn't, wouldn't do.

John should have let him die in that hospital. He should have taken care of Sammy himself rather than ask his oldest, a child he raised with only one purpose, to kill his own brother. To even think that he could do such a thing.

Dean had spent months after John's death angry and desperate and hurting. There was guilt over his father selling his soul to save him, rotting in Hell in exchange for a life Dean had never felt he deserved. There was anger that those were the last words his father found strength to say, that John Winchester had staved off the demon long enough to find his son and pass on a final message. A final message Dean wished to God he'd never heard. He hated himself for it, but he wished John had died before he'd been able to whisper that damning sentence to him. Then came the fury and shame, equal in proportion and destruction, that John thought Dean could ever do it.

It felt like a terrible, unfair test. Killing Sammy hadn't even been an option. Hell, killing himself would have been a thousand times easier. But failing to follow his father's last order, his last warning, was like spitting on the man's grave before his body was even cold.

No matter what he did, he'd already lost.

John should have fucking stayed and finished the job himself. He had no right – no right – to ask that of his own son. No right to offer himself in some noble sacrifice so he could shuck what he couldn't do himself off on Dean.

That thought had ultimately let the anger beat out over the guilt ten years ago.

The thing was, Dean thought he'd gotten over it. It had been nearly a decade since he'd lost his father. He hadn't killed Sam, and sure they'd started the Apocalypse in exchange for it, but hindsight was a bitch. Besides, Dean knew that neither Heaven nor Hell would have let Sam's passing slide by. They needed their Michael Sword in Hell, after all.

But here he was, ten years later, reliving it as he stood outside Singer Salvage Yard, fuming all over again as that guilt and hurt and shame and anger crushed him beneath his father's heel.

He spun and slammed his good hand against the side of an old sedan. He hit the flat of his palm against the metal again and again until that wasn't good enough and he switched to fists. The first hit stung. By the third he couldn't feel his hand anymore. When he started leaving blood splattered across the metal and glass, he finally pulled back.

Having a broken arm and a broken hand and no angel to magically heal him wasn't something he could afford right now. Dean flexed his fingers. The knuckles ached and stung, blood welling up sluggishly, but nothing felt broken. Small favors, he supposed.

"You done beating up my cars, boy?"

Dean didn't have to turn to know Bobby had followed him out. He was hardly surprised. The hunter flicked his wrist several times, dispersing the gathering blood across his knuckles.

"Sorry, Bobby."

"S'not me you gotta apologize to," the older man countered, though there was no heat in his scolding.

"Don't," Dean whispered, head hung. "Just don't."

"Didn't come out here to fight, kid." Bobby uncrossed his arms with a heavy sigh and moved over to the car Dean had unleashed on. He settled against the passenger door, clear of the splattered blood and new dents. "Got enough of that in my house as is."

Dean's shoulders sagged at the added guilt. Bobby didn't deserve all this shoved on him. He'd always been family, and a damn good friend to them. Dean knew he couldn't do this without him, knew cutting him loose to keep him out of the shitstorm to come wasn't an option (the old man would never allow such a thing to happen). But damn, he'd never meant to bring this down on Bobby's house.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled for the second time in a span of minutes.

"Hell, it's hardly your fault, Dean." Bobby cocked his head to the side forgivingly. "We both know you're father's a stubborn SOB. Sam and him are more alike than either of 'em care to admit."

The kid chuckled, but it was a dry and bitter sound. "Yeah. They're both gonna throw themselves in front of this and die fighting it."

Bobby suddenly stilled, shell shock silencing him as if slapped, and Dean immediately realized what he said.

"No, they won't," he quickly corrected, and then had to correct again, "Dad…Dad does."

Which Bobby already knew, but they both were aware of the large gaps missing in the story Dean had told. Bobby could really only hazard at what those gaps were.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sammy will be, uh…"

He took a deep, painful breath as he realized no, no Sammy would not be fine. None of them would be fine. Why did he think he could do this all over again?

"You know the last thing he said to me?"

If the abrupt change of topic was jarring, Bobby didn't let it show. He didn't know John's final words, but he could hazard a guess and it made his stomach twist and his chest ache. "Something to do with saving or killing those kids?"

"Yeah," Dean whispered as he moved over to the car. He settled his chest against the back door, covering the evidence of his outrage. Bowing his head until the cold metal of the car roof met his forehead, he confessed, "Sam. His own son."

The old man beside him sucked air through his teeth in a sharp inhale of shock and, worse, pain. It wasn't that that the news was all that surprising given the conversation that had gone down in the house, but it still hurt to think John Winchester could want Sammy dead. Worse, that he asked Dean to do it.

Bobby had always watched John Winchester with an air of distaste and regret when it came to how he raised his boys. The older hunter had tried to be a force of good in their life, a pillar of support and love, in comparison to the military expectations of their demanding father. Even given John's harshness with his boys and his cold distance in raising them, Bobby would never have thought the man could kill one of his boys. Or expect his sons to kill each other. It was wrong on so many levels, and Bobby was beginning to see the edges of this cold, hard Dean in a new light.

He swallowed harshly at the thought that filtered through his mind, guilt immediately flooding him afterward for even thinking it.

'Did you?'

The old man bit his tongue and didn't dare ask. Not only for the damage it would do to Dean, but because he damn well knew Sam lived another ten years, long enough to die in a graveyard fighting God's sister.

How could he even think such a thing? Damn, he was no better than that bastard currently holed up in his house.

"Just the fact that he'd ask me to do that." Dean mumbled the words against the roof of the car when Bobby failed to say anything in response. Silence always had been one of his biggest weaknesses. "That he even thought I could… What- What kind of dad asks his kid to do that?"

Bobby could hear the thickness in the kid's words well enough to know there were tears painting the top of the junker right now. He didn't mention it, just crossed his arms and tilted his head back to stare at the stars.

"Not a very good one," was his gruff reply. He didn't bother hiding his own anger and self-loathing in the statement. "Dean, I know you love him. Realizing your parents got faults – hell, even the good ones – it ain't easy."

And yeah, he was so not thinking of his own drunken bastard of an old man right now.

"But…Family don't end with blood, boy. You got…You boys got more than one daddy. You should know that."

The words trailed off quietly at the end, as if this staunch, grumpy man was almost embarrassed to mutter them. Dean lifted his head off the rusted roof of the car to stare at the hunter that would always be more of a father to him than John Winchester ever would.

He didn't stop to think, knowing he might back out if his brain was given time to admit just how sentimental and touchy this exchange was getting. Instead, he reached out and took what he so desperately needed, pulling Bobby into a crushing hug. He held on far longer than two men hugging ever should, but for one of the few times in his life, he told that voice in his head to shut it and he didn't let go.

When they finally pulled apart, Bobby quirked an eyebrow. Dean sniffed, in a very manly fashion of course, and wiped at his face with his good arm, careful to avoid the sluggishly bleeding cuts across his knuckles.

Bobby, eyebrow still raised, cracked a half smile. "That enough man talk for one evening?"

"God, yes." Dean laughed as he finished making himself semi presentable and the older hunter stood awkwardly by, pretending his boy wasn't falling apart and pulling himself back together. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Anytime, ya idjit." The hunter turned his gaze towards the house, which seemed quiet and almost peaceful in the night, with yellow light filtering out through several windows. "You should tell Sam."

Dean immediately cast a weary look his way.

"You should tell the kid all of it, if ya ask me." Bobby gave a pointed look of his own, knowing Dean was unlikely to follow that advice, even given freely. "But if nothin' else, you should tell him about yer dad."

Green eyes darted away, flickering to the lit windows of the kitchen. Bobby was right. Dean knew he was. With how things were going this time around, he doubted they'd be able to save John Winchester. The man was hell bent as ever to throw himself on the grenade that was the yellow eyed demon.

Even if they managed to avoid all of it – if they kept the Colt away from John, and John away from Azazel. If they kept the demon from possessing their dad, from beating the crap out of Dean, from getting in that car without knowing the truck waiting to ram them off the road. Even if they avoided it all, Dean had a sick feeling in his stomach that it wouldn't be enough.

John was going to keep finding other grenades, it was only a matter of time.

"I don't know," he finally confessed.

"Sam's gonna figure it out, son." At the skewed look Dean sent his way, Bobby just shrugged. "He's not an idiot."

"Yeah, but time travel, Bobby?"

The old hunter shrugged again. Dean should know better than to underestimate his little brother. "I'm just saying. If he finds out after that you knew and didn't tell him…"

"I know," Dean immediately responded, eager to stop thinking about the entire train of thought. "I just…I don't know how much I can tell him."

"Why not all of it?"

The younger hunter just shook his head.

"This got something to do with that dream angel of yers telling you yer changing too much?"

"I don't know, Bobby!" Dean spun away from the house and his kid brother somewhere inside. "Cas wasn't exactly clear on that, you know."

And damn it, he didn't even know if it was Cas.

"What if I change too much?" He glanced back over almost hesitantly at Bobby, and once more the man could see just how lost Dean was in all of this. "What if he's right? If I change too much and the demons start noticing something's up, that I know what's going to happen…"

"Then they go left instead of right," Bobby finished quietly, realization forming more firmly now in the pit of his stomach. He tilted his head back up to the sky once more, ignoring the heavy sigh that settled in his chest like dread.

"Exactly. We lose the only advantage we have here."

Bobby did let that out that sigh, despite it. "Balls."

Dean huffed a laugh, but there wasn't much funny about the situation at all.

-o-o-o-

By the time Dean and Bobby returned to the house, the old hunter eventually grousing at Dean to suck it up and quit hiding out in the yard, John had retired to the couch in the darkened den and Sam was milling about in the room the boys shared upstairs.

The two brothers didn't say much once Dean joined him. Sam had questions but no idea how to frame them, and Dean just wanted to sleep and not think about the weight of the world for a couple of hours.

They turned in with nothing but a quick 'night' to each other.

-o-o-o-

He wasn't sure what woke him, he only knew that one moment he was peacefully asleep and the next he was up and aware that something wasn't right. Sam glanced to his brother's bed. Dean was still out, snoring lightly, good arm thrown over the side of the mattress and broken arm strapped to his chest.

Wetting the roof of his dry mouth, Sam rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he checked the room for whatever had woken him. He stood between the beds, bare feet on cold wood floors. The door to the hallway was partially cracked, but he couldn't remember what state it had been in before collapsing into bed several hours earlier. There weren't any sounds through the house to suggest what woke him up. Still, he knew better than to ignore his instinct. Pulling the hunting knife from under his pillow, he quietly slid out of their shared room and took to the stairs.

The answer came to him at the same time as his feet hit the landing, providing him a glimpse into the den. He'd probably never know if it was his brain or his eyes that supplied the information first, but he supposed it didn't matter. The reason he was awake in the middle of the night was staring him in the face, no longer a mystery.

The couch in Bobby's den was empty, the blanket tossed to the side and John's go bag missing from the floor beside it.

-o-o-o-

When Dean woke to his brother's voice, not urgent in the way that meant they were under attack in the middle of the night but still rushed and definitely angry, the older Winchester already knew. He sat upright as the words spilled out of Sam's mouth, but he already knew.

Dad was gone.

In a flurry of motion, Dean kicked off the sheets and blankets on his bed, moving over to the left of the door where they'd dropped their bags. He rifled through shirts and pants, throwing articles and weapons onto the bed. Sam watched him, knowing what he was looking for and fearing the same thing Dean did.

"It's not here," the older Winchester finally, stoically, reported. Sam closed his eyes. Dean let out a primal, frustrated scream, slamming his hands into the overturned duffle of clothes. "The bastard took the damn Colt!"

-o-o-o-

John Winchester drove sullenly away from the Singer house, fingers tight on the wheel of his truck. The roads were dark, the moon already set for the night and the stars flickering brightly in the velvet sky. There weren't a lot of street lights along the outskirts Bobby where lived. The yellow and white lines of the road were illuminated only by his passing headlights.

The hunter glanced to the passenger seat and the revolver sitting on the old leather.

He'd had to do it. It was the right call, even if stealing from his boys and leaving them in the middle of the night felt low, even for him. But he couldn't let his children get tangled up in this, especially not now. Not with the effects of blood starting to show in his youngest, and his oldest questioning his every command.

John didn't have the extra bandwidth to keep his boys safe, not this time. He needed every ounce of his focus on the demon and the hunt to come.

They wouldn't thank him for it – they never had – but he was going to keep his boys safe.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 25

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam was furious. Not with John, not because of their dad stealing the Colt, sneaking off in the middle of the night like some criminal, and once more leaving them behind in a fight they had every right to be in. Sure, he was pissed about all of that, but that was John Winchester. That was predictable. No, Sam was furious and the cause was sitting across from him at Bobby Singer's kitchen table, nursing a beer at four in the morning like he had nothing better to do.

"I can't believe you!" the younger Winchester yelled, tossing his arms to the side. "Dad stole the damn Colt, Dean. He's going after Yellow Eyes and, according to you, it's going to get him dead. We need to go after him!"

Dean spared his brother a rather scathing look, given that Sam was the one clearly making sense here and Dean was the one sitting on his butt doing absolutely nothing. The brunette dropped his arms back to his sides, staring at his brother in disbelief.

Sometimes, he really didn't know this man. If you'd asked him six months ago if his brother would ever change, he'd have laughed the question off because the honest to God answer was no. Winchester men didn't change.

But the cold, broken man sitting in Bobby's kitchen across from him, refusing to save his own father, was so foreign to Sam that he found himself once more questioning if he knew him at all.

"What do you want me to do, Sam?" Dean countered, green eyes refusing to look up at the sasquatch towering over him. "Dad's gonna throw himself at this no matter what we do."

"Then we stop him!"

"It can't be stopped!" Dean leaned forward almost violently, eyes ablaze as he stared at his brother and Sam immediately realized they weren't just talking about John Winchester any more.

He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "What's coming that you're so afraid of, Dean?"

His brother shoved back into his chair, once more looking away like a child put in timeout. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Bobby, leaning against the far wall of the kitchen and so far staying out of the sibling spat, cleared his throat and gave the older Winchester a pointed look. Dean ignored him, but Sam bounced his gaze between the two, brow furling.

The realization that Bobby knew hit him like a bag of bricks straight into his stomach, plummeting the vulnerable organ right to the floor and pulling the air from his lungs in the same go. He turned back almost slowly to Dean. He could feel the rage starting to build, not just from their dad and from Dean's refusal to do anything about it, but from the endless lies.

Dean, John, now Bobby. Was he the only person in this family unworthy of the truth?

"Are you going to tell the whole world what's going on with you before you tell me?" he shot at his brother. The flinch he got in return only furthered the anger coursing beneath his skin. He could practically feel it vibrating through his veins. It was a building buzz, a tingle through every muscle that reminded him of facing the Baku in that nightmare dream. He felt the swell of pressure through his sinuses before the blood filled his nasal cavity, a steady stream that pooled just above his lip.

Dean was up and out of his chair, the scraping of wood across linoleum suddenly the loudest thing in the tense room. Sam swiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing away the result of what flowed just beneath the surface. He looked back up at his brother, who stood across the table from him, looking more helpless than Sam had ever seen him.

The bitter smile that pulled at his lips was as full of self-loathing as it was anger. Sam held up his hands, the one still smeared with red.

"I'm done." He shook his head and took a step back. "I'm done."

The youngest Winchester spun out of the kitchen, grabbing his jacket off of Bobby's couch as he headed for the front door. Dean was already following, calling after him.

"Where are you going?" he hollered, his concern coming through as abrasive as ever as Sam wrenched open the door.

"I'm going to stop dad or I'm going to help him kill that damn thing. Like you should be doing! " the younger answered automatically, one hand on the knob as he regarded his brother incredulously. He threw his arm out to the side, jacket flapping in the motion. "And after that? I don't know. I just don't know anymore, Dean. Maybe I'll take my life back, go back to school, marry Jess."

The silence that followed his declaration was answer enough as to what Dean thought of that idea. To what the man supposedly from the future knew would never happen. Sam dropped his arms, so damn tired of waiting for his brother to trust him.

"Yellow Eyes said you had to keep hunting," Dean muttered, a lackluster comeback for any Winchester.

Sam scoffed, that bitter smile finding his lips. He turned back through the door, not bothering to face his brother as he called back, "Yeah, but he didn't say it had to be with you."

He left the door open as he jaunted down the steps and across the yard. Dean could close it or follow after, maybe throw a punch or try to stop him. At this point, he really didn't care.

-o-o-o-

Dean watched his kid brother disappear into the stacks of cars, likely to find one still worth hotwiring, since the kid had walked right past the Impala. Sam knew better than to take off in Dean's car, though part of the older hunter might have preferred it. It would have been easier to follow after him, to fight him on this, if he'd given him a reason.

Because Dean knew he didn't have the high ground here. Sam was right, through and through. They should be going after John, stopping him from confronting Azazel, for so many reasons. This hadn't happened last time, so Dean didn't know what would come of it. John could get himself killed sooner, Azazel could get a hold of the Colt, could hold their dad hostage again. This wasn't part of the script, and Dean was barely holding on to his escalating blood pressure just thinking about it.

But he was also tired. Tired of fighting for his dad, who seemed as determined as Time itself to make sure he found an early grave. Dean had almost forgotten what it was like trying to talk to John Winchester, the brick wall variety of inflexible. He was tired of doing this alone, tired of lying to his brother, tired of having to police a timeline that had done him no favors, twice over now. And he was terrified for his brother. Terrified, with no idea where to start on fixing it.

"Give him some time," Bobby spoke beside him, the two still staring out the open front door into the yard. Headlights lit the far corner, and soon enough a car pulled onto the drive and headed out the gate.

Dean swallowed hard. "You saw his face, Bobby."

"Yeah, I did." The older hunter's perfectly calm tone was infuriating to the amped up man beside him. "But going after him won't do any good, and you know it. Give him time to cool off. He'll be back."

The older Winchester huffed. "Not if he catches Dad."

Bobby turned back into the house with a roll of his eyes at the kid's pigheadedness. Truth was, Dean was itching for a fight, for someone to vent all that pent up worry on. Bobby wasn't gonna give it to him. "You and I both know he won't. Yer Daddy's got at least a half hour head start. That might as well be a private jet. And Sam knows it."

Dean glanced at his friend before finally heeding him and closing the front door. When he followed Bobby into the kitchen, still glancing back towards the yard, the older hunter rolled his eyes, this time in full view of the intended audience.

"For Christ sake, boy, he wasn't wearing pants." Dean frowned slightly at the older man, who finally gave a hell of a shrug. "He's got all of a jacket and the boxers covering his ass. Pretty sure he'll figure that out about the time he runs out of gas."

Green eyes widened slightly, and the twitch at the corner of his lips told Bobby his job of comforting the damn baby was done. So he plopped himself down in the kitchen chair, reached over to the row of landlines and pulled out the legal pad from that morning. He tossed it onto the table, staring up expectantly at his kid.

"Now sit down and put the time to good use. You got a story to finish, ya idjit, and if I'm not getting sleep in my own house, then neither are you."

-o-o-o-

Sam realized his state of dress and lack of plan long before the gas gage ran low on his hotwired, stolen car. He didn't care. For weeks now, they'd been on the go, non-stop. Between Meg revealing herself to them in California, the Yellow Eyed Demon confronting him – saving him – in Nebraska, and fighting off the Baku, they had barely stopped to breathe or sleep as they crisscrossed the country. Yet, for weeks now, Sam felt stagnant. No closer to finding dad, no closer to ending this nightmare, no closer to getting the truth from his brother.

Even now, with so much of it to a head, it was like running face first into a concrete wall. He now had a pretty good idea what was going on with Dean, but nothing changed. His brother still didn't trust him, believe in him. Dean continued to lie straight to his face. Sam had given him every opportunity to just say it and he was out of reasons – done coming up with excuses – for why Dean couldn't tell him the truth.

They'd finally found their dad, even saved him. They had saved him. Their dad, always untouchable, invincible, had needed them and they'd been there. They'd made it, even when he refused to ask for their help. Again, nothing had changed. Sure, they'd had one of the most civil conversations of their relationship to date, but John had still left. He'd still gone behind their backs, refused to trust them to handle themselves as he'd raised them to. Once more, he'd left them behind.

Sam knew he'd never catch him. His dad was too good; the man barely needed a ten minute head start to disappear, and this morning he'd had far longer. They'd wasted precious time arguing about going after him.

The anger resurged, coursing through him almost to a boiling point. He could feel it filling every blood vessel, screaming to be released. To just punch something. To hurt something.

Of everything Dean had done over the past six months, this was the most infuriating of all. Perhaps because it was the least explainable for Sam. It didn't make any sense. Dean had all but said their dad was going to get himself killed, and Sam had less and less doubt about its validity. Yet his brother refused to go after him, to stop him?

Why? Was Dean Winchester really going to just let their dad die? Not for the first time, Sam wondered if he really knew this man that had taken over his brother's body and turned his life so utterly upside down.

Worse, he'd kept Sam from going after Dad while he could have made a difference. He could have caught him – could have at least had a chance – if he'd left right away. Now, he was out driving the darkened backroads of South Dakota for no reason. His 'search' was pointless, accept that it got him out of that house and away from his brother.

If it even was his brother anymore.

The boiling in his blood reached the tipping point, fed by the pain that lanced through him at the thought he couldn't take back. With a recklessness that could have gotten him killed, Sam wrench the car off to the shoulder, slamming on the breaks. He was out the door before the parking break fully engaged, pacing along the dirt and weeds that lined the backroad.

He could feel it building in him like a pressure gage. Like a shaken soda, and his brother was the damn bottle cap. With trembling fists, Sam spun back towards the car and let out a primal scream. Metal wrenched and screeched in tune with his cry. He threw out his hand and the driver door flew across the road with a shriek, clattering across the cement to careen into ditch on the other side.

It wasn't enough, though. He could still feel the bubbling in his blood, the anger coursing through him that needed release. So he tore at the car again and again; he ripped at the doors and dented the roof. He exploded windows and crushed the interior. When the airbag blew, he ripped that out a well, sending it off into the field along the highway with nothing more than his mind and his rage.

As the anger finally petered out and his adrenaline crashed into a hollow, empty pit in his chest, Sam sank onto the side of the road. Blood was flowing freely from his nose and his lungs were heaving, desperate for air that suddenly seemed in short supply.

The young hunter sat on his heels, gasping in the middle of the dark road, vision blurred by stinging eyes. He wipe the back of his hand across his face, erasing evidence of snot and tears and spit. When breathing became more manageable and his hands weren't shaking so badly he couldn't even grip his jacket, Sam looked back up. He stood in one fluid motion, brought to his feet by sudden shock of what he had done.

The car was unrecognizable. There was nothing left but a wrecked, mangled pile of metal that looked closer to a mechanical pancake than a vehicle. A shaky breath left him as realization hit tenfold and he lifted his fingers to his upper lip, caked with blood.

He'd done that. With his mind.

Sam stumbled back a step, staring in horror at the direct result of his loss of control and the new power flowing beneath his fingertips. His hands were shaking again. He swiped again at his nose, and then again and again in a desperate bid to rid himself of the proof. He spun away from the flattened car, pinching his nose until the flow finally slowed.

Was this what Yellow Eyes wanted? Was this why he had saved him, given him that blood? Sam stared at his hands, shaking and smeared with patches of red so dark in the early hours that the liquid almost looked black. The boy curled his fingers into loose fists, hiding them too.

"What am I?" he whispered to the empty road, as terrified of a response as he was of the silence he got in return. He tilted his head back to the heavens and screamed it to the sky. Maybe if he yelled it loudly enough, someone would answer him.

Was this why Dean sometimes looked at him like he was terrified for him – or maybe it was of him? Was that car and the blood on his hands the reason Dean wouldn't tell him the truth? Didn't trust him?

He glanced over his shoulder almost hesitantly at the vehicle as though it might come to life; the embodiment of his fear and uncontrollable rage. Maybe Dean wasn't the one in the wrong here, he thought. Because staring at that mangled, broken mess of thankfully lifeless material, Sam was no longer sure he trusted himself.

He hung his head in the silence that surrounded him. The wheat stalks rustled in the light breeze and the moon hung low in the sky, on its way back down for the day. Any other time, he would have called it peaceful. He would have called Jess, despite the early hour, and told her about the stars in the sky and the crickets on the wind.

Sam sniffed once, blinking away the water build up in his eyes and pulling the jacket tight around himself. A million would-haves wasn't going to change things, and he had a long walk ahead of him. He started past the car, back the way he'd come, but hesitated as his booted feet crunched on asphalt.

Hesitantly, he glanced at the metal wreck. He couldn't just leave it there. A gutted car that looked like it had gone through a compactor in the middle of nowhere Nebraska? Yeah, that was going to call some attention. Quite possibly of the hunter variety.

Sam stared at the chunk of metal and the corn field behind it, stomach twisting. Slowly, he raised one hand, fingers splayed. His entire arm trembled as he stared at the metal between his fingers. Nothing happened for several long moments. He knew, with no idea how he knew, that it was his fear holding him back.

With a deep swallow, he shoved that twisting knot in his gut down deeper, out of the way where he couldn't feel its hesitancy. He closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for that ever present vibration in his blood. And then he pushed.

The car screeched across the road terribly, sparks jutting up in its wake. It rocked and dragged at first, then went flying into the field beyond like a saucer from space. Sam released the power shuddering through his body as soon as the car was hidden among the stalks. He stumbled on the road, but managed to keep his feet and immediately checked his nose.

No blood.

He stared down at his hand, having no idea what that meant. He turned heel on the long road and started back the way he'd come, refusing to look at the field that hid the evidence of his very terrifying new ability.

-o-o-o-

"We have a problem."

Lilith looked up from the ancient scroll she was tracing a petite finger across, deciphering ink long faded by years on earth and now all but deteriorating in the heat and depths of Hell. But Azazel's tone booked little room for pause, so with a toss of black hair and pink ribbons, she sent the attending demons from the room and set aside the parchment detailing the creation of six hundred and sixty six seals.

Once he had her full attention and the promise of a private audience, Azazel tilted his head towards the demonic princess. "John Winchester has the Colt."

Any lingering sweetness painted across her pink cheeks by youth or innocence disappeared in a snarl far more reminiscent of her true face. Her eyes flashed pupil-less white, tinted red and orange by the ever flickering flames of Hell. "What? We've been searching for that wretched thing for decades! How the hell did that useless meatsuit stumble across it?"

Azazel paid her reverberating wrath little mind. He was the one who had neglected to mention the Winchester's primary means of negotiation six months prior, when they played their hand early to save one bitch out of thousands. The Prince of Hell had let that piece of information slide precisely for this reason. He had witnessed his fair share of temper tantrums by Lucifer's firstborn in the two decades since he'd managed to unearth her from the depths of the Pit. They still hadn't gotten her topside – that would take a Devil's Gate and no less. A demon of her age and power drew the denizens of hell behind her like flotsam caught in a wake. They'd plug up any hole they tried to squeeze her through well before she got close.

Luckily, they'd worked that into their plans long ago, and fate seemed only to be shining on them.

"It's in our favor, really," he offered, crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the rocky wall, the uneven surface sweltering hot as all things in the Pit were. "Without it, we were going to have to open one of the more troublesome gates. Now we can go straight for Cavalry Cemetery."

"Assuming we can get our hands on the Colt," she bit back.

He was surprised at her pessimism, really. Of all the head demons in on Hell's apocalypse plan, Lilith had maintained a steadfast and loyal optimism not common among their kind. But here she stood, worrying her lip between her baby teeth at the first real obstacle they'd hit, which they hadn't bothered ruling out as a possibility to begin with, and one that really would serve them better in the end.

"Do you think it could kill him?"

Ah, so she was worried about dear Daddy. Azazel shrugged. "I don't know. But it certainly can kill me or you, and ahead of schedule I might add. That's a bigger concern then hypotheticals."

Her eyes darted to the parchment, then back to him. She drew her shoulders back and thrust her chin out, which might have been cute on an actual eight-year old girl. "I want that gun, Azazel. It's time to take John Winchester."

Her command left no room for argument, though Azazel had none to give anyway. Heaven's gate remained shut and quiet. The Winchesters were falling into line without knowledge of their complicity. The appearance of the Colt was the final sign Azazel had been waiting for. It was time to get the wheels of Hell's apocalypse really turning.

-o-o-o-

The legal pad was almost full by the time the sun started its way back down, and that was only the apocalypse-based stuff. Dean still refused to bring up anything after, insisting that they wouldn't get there and if they did that he'd already written it down. He ignored Bobby's repeated looks at that point, and now stood at the back door, staring out into the yard.

"He'll come back, son. Give it time."

Dean shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder at the old hunter, sitting at the table, going back through the endless notes he'd written that day. He'd been asking questions every couple of minutes, any time he hit a part he felt didn't have enough information.

Dredging all of that up and then being quizzed on it was only making Dean twitchier.

"It's been all damn day, Bobby."

The old man huffed, not even bothering to look up. "Your brother's a grown ass man, Dean. He can check himself into a hotel. Tell me about the Harvelles."

Dean's stomach clenched at the request. Bobby was slowly tracking through eight years of crap, systematically but methodically identifying each area Dean had neglected to define in detail. He'd pretty much glossed right over Ellen and Jo. Their deaths still rubbed his heart raw in ways that had never healed right.

When the kid didn't answer, Bobby sighed and let the pages of the legal pad fall back into place, covering five years of unpleasant memories. He watched his son stare out the window with a singular focus and decided to take pity on the kid.

"You know something about today?"

Dean glanced over at him with a frown, not understanding his question at first. When he realized what Bobby was asking him, he shrugged. "No. None of this happened the first time."

"Date doesn't ring any bells?"

The hunter paused to think for a moment, then looked over sheepishly. "What's the date?"

Bobby rolled his eyes hard enough he should have gotten whiplash. "May first, you idjit. Two thousand six."

Dean shook his head. He didn't recall anything happening on that date specifically, though there honestly weren't that many events he remembered down to the detail of the day.

"Then give him some space. He'll come back."

The kid grumbled by the window, eyes still looking back through the blinds to the empty yard beyond. Bobby had just gone back to the legal pad when he finally turned into the room. "What if he catches up to Dad? He's going to get himself killed, Bobby, and if Sammy's with him…If Azrael gets him early… God, we've already got the blood addiction to worry about-"

"Calm down," Bobby answered immediately, notepad falling to the side once more. "Getting your tights in a twist ain't gonna fix anything. Sam's a smart kid; he'll be back. But he ain't gonna stay if you keep lying to him, and you know it."

Dean shot him a glare, which he promptly ignored. But movement out the back window caught his attention, and he turned to see a lone figure making his way toward the house. Immediately, Dean pushed open the door with his good arm, jogging down the stairs as Sam came walking up in nothing but his boxers, a pair of dusty boots, and a jacket.

"What happened to the car?" Dean glanced around the yard, wondering briefly why Sam was walking the length of the drive. He hadn't actually figured Sam would run out of the gas. The kid was too smart for that. "Wait, did you walk here?"

His brother spared him a heated glare and pushed right past him back into the house. He gave a brief greeting to Bobby, which was returned in kind, and then headed straight upstairs for a pair of much needed pants.

Letting the door close behind him, Dean watched his brother disappear into the den and the stairs beyond, glancing at Bobby helplessly. The old hunter just guffawed and gave him a 'told ya so' look before going back to his legal pad.

With an eye roll of his own, totally done with being the bad guy here, Dean stomped after Sam. He took the stairs one angry footfall at a time, giving his brother plenty of warning he was coming with all the noise he was making. Sam was just buttoning his jeans and grabbing a clean shirt when Dean opened the door to the room they shared.

"You gonna talk to me, or we just doing the silent thing now?"

Sam paused for half a second before he resumed pulling the shirt on over his head. He let his brother stew in his lack of answer as he pulled the hem down, then reached for his jacket. By the time he'd gotten it on, Dean looked ready to blow. So Sam finally faced him, a mask of nonchalance covering his own anger. "Do you ever get tired of being a damn hypocrite?"

Dean pulled back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means Kettle," Sam gestured to his brother, then to himself. "Pot. You want to talk silent treatment?"

His older brother had the brains to at least move to the side as Sam pushed past him and into the hall. Those brains didn't stop him from following after him, though.

"What the hell, Sam. Since when am I giving you the silent treatment? Pretty sure this is me talking to you."

Sam snorted as he started down the stairs. He swiped his phone and wallet off of Bobby's desk, where he'd left them the night before. He turned around to face his brother, shoving the items into his jacket pocket. "Talking to me? Dean, you haven't talked to me in six months. And I'm done. I'm headed right back out that door after dad or the first hunt I can find unless you start telling me the truth."

Dean hesitated, eyes sliding just over his brother's shoulder, where Bobby was still sitting in the kitchen, watching the confrontation unfold with a pointed look.

Sam shook his head once more. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Dangerous. "I'm not kidding, Dean. This is your last chance. I'm your brother. If that means anything to you, then talk to me."

The older Winchester opened his mouth, only to have nothing come out. He tried again, but damn it, how was he supposed to even start?

Sam dropped his gaze, jaw clenched. He gave a nod and turned toward the kitchen and the back door.

"I don't know how to," Dean blurted out almost desperately. When Sam turned halfway back to him, he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know where to start."

"You're from the future."

Whatever he had been expecting from his brother – and honestly, he'd been expecting that soft, victim-voice and puppy dog eyes to help walk him through this – it wasn't that. The words were biting and fierce, and Sam's eyes dared him to say otherwise.

Dean's mouth flapped like a fish and Bobby coughed harshly in the kitchen, likely covering up the fact that he'd practically snorted his beer. Sam spared him a glance, but quickly refocused his attention on his floundering brother.

The younger Winchester, shoulders heaving with each tension-filled, super-charged breath, couldn't believe how easy it had been. Almost three days of trying to figure out how to broach the subject, since his brother clearly wasn't going to, and it had come down to blurting it out. He was actually more annoyed that he'd wasted those days trying to approach the problem like a referee. Like Sam Winchester would. He should have just approached it like Dean.

He squared his shoulders and stared down at his older brother, whose expression erased the last little bit of doubt in Sam's mind that he could have been wrong. "How about you start there."

The man from the future gaped for another moment before he shook his head. "How the hell-"

"Because I'm not an idiot, Dean." Sam turned and walked swiftly into the kitchen, his brother hot on his heels. He needed motion – action – and quite possibly a drink if he was staying in this house.

"Oh no," Dean countered, following Sam straight over to the fridge. "You don't get to drop that bombshell and call IQ points, college boy. Smart people don't jump straight to time travel!"

Sam whirled on his brother, beer in hand and fridge door open. "You look about a decade older in dreamland, future boy."

Dean was back to floundering, mouth hanging open and snapping shut in a cycle. Finally, with a glance at Bobby who was busy trying out for the Olympic sport of eye rolling and told-ya-so's, the older Winchester cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Oh," he managed, wetting his lips at his suddenly dry mouth. He swiped the beer from his brother's hand, but at least had the decency to look sheepish for all of it. "I hadn't thought of that."

Sam glared at him, but reached in for another beer.

-o-o-o-

The confrontation between the brothers when it finally came to a head was no less tense than Bobby figured it would be. It wasn't quite as volatile as he'd feared, considering Dean was still flabbergasted his brother had figured it out and Sam was far calmer about the confirmation then Bobby thought was normal.

It was still ugly, though.

"What the hell was I supposed to tell you, huh?" Dean popped the cap off the beer with one hand, using the edge of the counter. "Hi, Sam, I'm your brother from ten years in the future. An angel sent me back because serious shit is coming?"

"Anything would have been better than lying to me, Dean!" Sam threw himself into one of the kitchen chairs, and then almost as quickly launched himself back out of it. The wild energy built up in him was clear as day, and Dean at least had the intelligence to stay out of its path. "You're not subtle. I spent the last six months wondering who the hell you were half the time, and the other wondering why you didn't trust me!"

"I do trust you." The words were so quickly state, with such veracity, that it drew Sam up short. He stared at his brother, who was watching him with as earnest as those green eyes ever got. "I trust you, Sam, more than anyone else on this planet."

Dean swallowed, looking away self-consciously, shame flickering at the edges of his gaze. "This wasn't about trust."

"Then what, Dean?" Sam stared at his brother imploringly. "Make me understand. I'm your brother; you should be able to tell me anything."

The older Winchester shrugged his good shoulder, fingers immediately picking at the label of his beer. Sam knew it well for the tell of insecurity it was. "I don't exactly have a manual here, alright? I'm winging it, and I've…I've gotten a lot wrong."

Sam's brow furled. "In…time travel?"

Dean shrugged again, glancing back up. "I'm trying to change things, Sammy. And so far I've mostly just fucked them up."

"That's not true," Bobby groused from the side. Both boys turned to him, having forgotten he was in the room as an audience to their spat. He had the pad of scribbles in front of him, not bothering to hide it, and was pointing the pen in Dean's direction. "You've done good too, kid. You know that."

Dean ducked his gaze away again. Looking at his brother and his anger and confusion was easier than Bobby and his praise. "Point is, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how much I can tell you, how much I can change without, you know, breaking the friggin' or universe or something."

"Anything is better than you lying to me, man." Sam stood in the doorway of the kitchen, slouched for all his height. Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his head, seeing only his kid brother standing there.

"I know," he conceded softly. "I know, Sam. And I didn't want to lie to you. I've been trying not to, alright, ever since-"

He cut himself off automatically, six months of instinct and rehearsal shutting down that line of thought as soon as it registered as 'future knowledge.' The idea of sharing it now, of uttering it without care, was both terrifying and desperately freeing.

"Since what?"

"Since I promised you – future you – no more secrets," Dean confessed, taking the plunge. It left him in one fast, long exhale, like a breath he'd been holding too long, till his lungs burned with the need to let it out. "Shit, man. Maybe that promise is ten years from now, but damn it, I was trying. You'd think time travel would be some sort of exception, but I still felt like crap every time."

"What about now?" Sam held open his arms, beer in one hand and too many expectations in the other. "I know now, Dean, and you didn't even tell me. I figured it out, so the universe can…suck it."

His older brother huffed out a laugh, but it settled in an awkward silence as he hesitated once more.

Sam dropped his arms. "Seriously?"

"It's got nothing to do with you, Sammy," Dean growled, rubbing the back of his head again. "I don't know what's safe to tell you. I had a friggin' panic attack the first time I even tried."

The younger of the two recalled a time not long after Dean had changed that he'd been an anxious, tongue-tied mess. Sam had been scarily close to calling Bobby or a head doctor. So that seemed a likely contender for what his brother was referencing.

"Did you hold back with Bobby?" He glanced back at the kitchen table and the thick pad of paper, curling at the edges and full of the older hunter's scrawl. "Because those pages look pretty full to me."

"Bobby's different."

Sam had to bite down on the instant surge of annoyance and hurt called up by his brother's words. Instead, he reminded himself that Dean Winchester had never been good with them and ignored the slight buzz throughout his veins. "How? You mean he's not your kid brother."

"That's not what I said."

"Kind of sounding like it, Dean."

"None of Bobby's decisions are going to start the Apocalypse!"

Dead silence filled the entirety of the Singer house. Sam was staring at his brother with wide eyes, barely able to breathe through suddenly constricted lungs. Dean stood across from him, looking like he wanted to shove his foot in his mouth and then swallow himself whole. At the kitchen table, Bobby made a disgruntled noise, planting his forehead in his palm.

"What?"

The whispered word was hardly a breath and Dean sighed, head hung.

"Bobby doesn't have as many choices coming up – important ones – that are going to have world-ending consequences."

"Yeah, I know the definition of an apocalypse, Dean. How about you cover the part of me starting one."

"It's not just you," Dean mumbled, raising his eyes to meet his brother's with more pain than Sam was comfortable seeing in them. "We both got starring roles to play in this, Sammy."

The younger Winchester took a shuttering breath in, heavy realization settling in his gut that Dean was serious. Not that this as a joke had even occurred to him, but it was natural for his brain to automatically flip the 'false' switch at anyone casually dropping the apocalypse as an upcoming calendar event.

"How…" He swallowed heavily, eyes darting around the room and back again. "Dean, how am I supposed to make the right choice if I don't even know the context of my options!"

"I'll help you."

The answer came so easily, so readily, off lips that had said those words a thousand times to him. Words that were formed in aid, but yielded control. Words he'd learned from their father, however well intended either Winchester man had meant to be.

"No, you mean you'll make the decision for me," Sam countered sharply as the buzz beneath his skin returned. It was nothing more than a slight vibration, but he was learning to tune into it faster now. "Helping me would mean telling me the truth and trusting me to make the right call!"

Bobby speared the older of the two brothers with a look that Dean couldn't duck, but could avoid returning.

"Sammy-"

"No, Dean! You can't just take my choices away from me because something's coming, because of decisions I haven't even made yet and things I haven't done." Sam scoffed, turning away from his brother. He rolled tight, aching shoulders, snapping his neck to the side as tension rippled up his spine. "I should have known better. This family. If I don't fit the mold, you'll just force me into it, won't you? You, Dad, the Yellow Eyed Demon. God forbid I make my own choices! To hell with the road I want to take, right?"

Sam was good and rearing, lungs filled and ready for verse two. Dean was already raising a finger, mouth open to beat him back down. He hardly noticed the building migraine, flaring with every word he spewed, or the way the edges of his vision darkened as he spun back to face his brother.

Dean barely caught the six and a half feet of Samsquatch before he hit the floor, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Bobby was up and out of his chair in a second flat, squatting down on the other side of the brothers. Sam hissed in Dean's good arm and the older Winchester struggled not to lose his hold on him as he tossed his head back and forth. He squinted past them with unseeing eyes, face pinched in pain as he tried to reach for his temple, entangling his arms with his brother's.

"What's happening?" Bobby asked, hands held out to help and assess, but with no idea what to do.

"I think it's a vision," Dean answered. Sam had only had one or two in front of him in the past, and he was pretty sure he hadn't hit the deck during any of those. Mid-rant, it was unlikely he'd been trying to push himself to have one again, like he had back in Wyoming before the whole blood debacle.

But with a pint of demon blood in his veins…Dean hadn't seen fallout from that yet, but he didn't think for a second that it meant they were out of the woods.

"Sammy?"

His kid brother finally stilled against him, fingers finding purchase against his temple and pressing into the headache he was sure to be feeling. Sam managed to open his eyes to slivers, staring up at his brother and Bobby. He groaned as he realized what had happened, struggling to sit and getting fully upright with his brother's help.

"What did you see?" Dean asked, keeping his hand placed supportively on his brother's back. "Was it Dad?"

"No." Sam shook his head, wincing as he did so and prompting Bobby to climb to his feet and head for the fridge and the ice pack he kept there. Sam accepted it and the hand towel gratefully, wrapping the cotton around the cold before pressing it to his aching head. "It was some guy in his garage. I think…he committed suicide, only it wasn't him. The car turned on by itself – wouldn't turn off – and the garage door wouldn't open. He couldn't get out."

Bobby watched the kid worriedly. He'd yet to see one of these visions, and if they were all doozies like that one, he was rather glad he hadn't. "Sounds like a ghost."

No, Dean thought. But it did sound familiar.

"There was something else-" Sam shook his head slightly, squinting once more as he tried to recall what he'd seen. "A kid. I don't know, the son, maybe? He was watching from the house."

Bobby stilled beside them, face tightening in thought. When Dean called his name, he glanced between the boys and then stood, beckoning them to his desk. Sam grabbed his brother's offered hand, pulling himself to his feet with a pained groan. He kept the ice pressed to his temple as the three men gathered around Bobby's desk, the old hunter pulling maps and sheets of paper from one of the drawers.

Files hit the surface in stacks, spreading out as paper slid over the smooth surface. Each stack was paper clipped together and topped with a photo of various kids. There had to be a dozen of them at least, smiling faces of teenagers and college kids. Some of which Dean recognized.

He looked up, meeting Bobby's eyes with surprise.

"What? You think John Winchester is the only one who can put together a pattern?"

Dean looked back down at the spread of Azazel's special children. Damn, Bobby was awesome.

"Any of 'em look familiar, Sam?"

The younger of the Winchesters pushed loose the few files that had remained stacked, hand hovering just above each photo, before settling on one. "Him. He was the one I saw."

Bobby pulled the stack out from under Sam's hand, flipping it open. Dean caught the familiar face staring up from the front page as it flopped over.

"Max Miller," the older hunter began reading. "Twenty-three years old, lives at home with his father and step-mother in Saginaw, Michigan. Birth mother died in a house fire when he was six months old."

"Do you think he's like me?"

"No," Dean responded hollowly, still staring at that ghost of a boy. He looked up to meet Sam and Bobby's eyes, respectively. "He doesn't get visions. He's, uh…telekinetic."

Sam stared at him, clearly boggled, though from the confirmation of other children with powers or a boy with the ability to move things with his mind, Dean didn't know. Or possibly his older brother finally admitting to knowing things he shouldn't 'cuz of that whole future thing, and all.

He cleared his throat when the wide-eyed staring didn't stop. "I, uh, don't remember much. I think he iced his parents. Abusive, or something. We thought it was a ghost when we first showed up."

"Telekinetic?" Sam still seemed a little shell-shocked.

"Yeah. All of you have different…abilities."

His kid brother took in a shuttering breath, eyelids fluttering for a moment and finally breaking that hundred-yard stare. "So there are more of us?"

"Yeah… Yeah, a lot more." Dean's words trailed off as he tried to dig through his memories for the confrontation with Max Miller. The kid had killed his dad in the garage, that much he remembered from Sam's vision. But there had been something else, too. He'd gone after his stepmom with a gun? A levitating gun. Dean's levitating gun.

"We gotta go," the older Winchester announced, turning around in the den in search of his jacket and car keys.

"What?"

"The dad died before we got there last time. We gotta go if we're going to save him." The image of Max lying in a pool of blood, bullet to the brain, was suddenly sharp in his mind. "If we're going to save Max."

"Dean." His brother's warning voice drew him up short. He could tell from the sasquatch's body language that he was a moment away from grabbing his own go bag and hitting the road, so it wasn't the sudden departure causing that tone. Meeting Sam's eyes, he could see the unfinished conversation plain as day in those hazel rings.

"I'll…I'll tell you what I can on the road. I promise," he intoned seriously, even as his chest constricted at the idea of fulfilling that vow.

Sam shared a skeptical look with Bobby, but grabbed Max's file from his hand and headed after his brother to confront the first of the Yellow Eyed Demon's other children.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 26

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The car shook as the driver side door shut, Dean climbing into the Impala next to his brother. The key hadn't even turned in the ignition before Sam was on him.

"So talk."

Dean sighed. "It's only a day's drive to Saginaw."

Sam's brow furled, not following his brother's train of thought. "So? What's that got to do with anything?"

Dean put the car in reverse and backed away from Bobby's house. Baby hadn't been moved since they'd first arrived in their frantic search for John, since Bobby insisted he drive them to the hospital for Dean's broken arm that night, and the younger hunter hadn't exactly cared about a good parking job when they'd gotten there earlier that day. He flipped gears and pulled onto the partially designated drive, differentiated only by the lack of junkers on the clear stretch of gravel and dirt.

"It's not long enough. Not for the whole story, trust me."

"So I get nothing?" Sam huffed, a disbelieving look painted across his bitter smile and raised eyebrows. "We're going to spend the next twelve hours pretending you're not from the future? Oh, yeah, that's going to be a fun ride."

Dean wrung his hand on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the interstate. The conversation was inevitable and he knew it. "What do you want to know?"

Sam turned his head to look at his older brother, who kept his eyes firmly on the road. "What does Yellow Eyes want?"

"Azazel." Dean cleared his throat. He rubbed his broken arm against his sternum and the light ache there. "His name's Azazel."

His kid brother stared at him, brow creased and roiling emotions too masked by the gravity of the situation for Dean to read him easily.

"What does Azazel want with me?"

-o-o-o-

Sam was numb.

He thought he shouldn't be. He should probably be freaking out. Stressed. Emotional. Stunned. Any of that would be a proper reaction to learning you were going to herald the end of the world. Sam Winchester, boy with the demon blood, destined freer of Lucifer and vessel of the actual devil.

The young hunter let out a low, slow breath through pursed lips.

They were at a gas station just outside of Rochester, Minnesota. Dean was by the pump, leaning against the side of the Impala as he filled her up. Sam could tell from his posture, going from rigid to forcefully relaxed and back again, that he was trying to give his brother space but didn't want to leave his sight either.

Sam didn't pay him much attention. Sitting in the front seat, he was busy being numb. Not the tingling numb of a limb falling asleep, but the floating sensation of no longer having any ties to the world or the laws that defined it. There was no gravity afflicting his body, pushing his limbs into the old leather of the seats, the rough fabric of his clothes. There was no scent of coffee wafting up from the cup holders or faded music filtering from the broken speakers of the gas station roof. None of that was real – couldn't be – because Sam didn't feel any of it.

He needed to call Jess. It was the only thought that kept going through his head. Everything Dean had told him, from Azazel's plan for him, to defeating the Devil, and all he could think about was calling Jess. She deserved to know he wasn't coming back.

Sam pushed open the passenger door with the squeak of metal. Dean looked up from the pump, across the roof of the car. His face was full of brotherly concern – the stern type that was about to ask him where he was going. Sam turned away before he could, heading for the small store attached to the pumps.

Dean didn't call after him and he was glad for it.

The young hunter didn't duck around the corner of the dilapidated building like he wanted to. His brother would absolutely put him back in line of sight the moment he was out of it, even if he stayed far enough away to give him some privacy. So Sam didn't waste energy trying for it. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the convenience store, as far from the entrance and close to the side of the building as he could go while still remaining in his brother's vision.

Pulling out his phone, he turned his shoulder to the car and raised the mobile to his ear.

Dean had been emphatic that what happened next – what they were going to change so it never came – wasn't his to face alone. Yes, he was supposed to release the devil on the world and serve as his physical presence. Yes, in the world Dean came from, it had happened. But his brother insisted that he'd also been the one to stop Lucifer, to cage him back up at the cost of his own life. Dean had played his own role as well, breaking the first seal as unwittingly as Sam had broken the last. Though he had skirted details due to what he claimed were time constraints (but Sam easily read as bitter memories and avoidance), he'd made it clear that the two were pawns – weapons – in a war between Heaven and Hell.

So they were going to throw the rule book out. Screw destiny. Go Team Free Will. They'd done it once before, and this time they had the edge of knowing what was coming. They wouldn't be tricked into that fate crap again.

Sam's fingers tightened around the edge of the phone as it rang. See, there was a problem with that plan that Dean didn't know about. Sam believed in Fate. In Destiny. The idea that he was meant for something more, something better than hunting, had gotten him through his dark childhood of shotguns and shovels. Sam believed in God and he believed in a plan, because it had been one of the rare lights in the long nights of his youth that he could believe in.

Now Dean was insisting both sides, Heaven and Hell, were dicks and God was a no-show; a deadbeat dad with nothing but excuses and silence. There was no good side in the upcoming war but their own. The oorah-comradery was his brother's attempt at following up some terrible news with a ray of hope, but it did nothing for Sam's numb state. He could feel the taint of demon blood slithering beneath his skin and he knew, as painful as it was to admit it, that he wasn't on the side of good.

"Sam?"

The Winchester boy sucked in a breath at the sound of Jess's voice through the phone. Just hearing her used to bring a smile to his face. He knew, given other circumstances, it absolutely still would. But not tonight. He looked down at the sidewalk beneath his feet, spattered with chewed gum and cigarette butts, illuminated by the flickering gas station lights above

"Hey, Jess." His return was lackluster, despite giving it half a thought of forcing a smile to his face. It would be misplaced and unfair to her now, especially with what he learned. He didn't have it in him to fake that kind of happiness.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's…nothing immediate." He shook his head and pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment. Sam tilted his head back and closed his eyes, praying to someone who his brother insisted wasn't listening.

And he would know, wouldn't he?

"Sam? Talk to me." Jess's voice was sweet as he put the phone back to his ear. She was worried for him, her words dipped with concern and a love that Sam knew now he didn't deserve. "Is it your dad? Did you find him?"

"Yeah. He's…" A bastard, that's what John Winchester was. "…fine. We're uh…we found him, but he left again."

"What an asshole." Her response, immediate and without remorse, made him chuckle. God, he missed her. Silence filled the line for a moment, and he could almost picture her if he closed his eyes. Thin but strong fingers tightening around the phone, blonde waves pressing against her cheek from the weight of the phone, worry in her eyes and bottom teeth abusing the corner of her lip.

"I'm okay, Jess," he said quietly, trying to reassure her as he realized that these calls did nothing but bring her more pain. That's all he seemed capable of bringing his loved ones right now. And for the foreseeable future. That's why he had to let her go. Why she had to let him go. "I…I learned some things. We found out the demon's plan."

"That's….that's good, right?" He could tell from her tone that she knew it wasn't good. "Better than not knowing…"

"Yeah. But…uh…it's not…" Sam opened his eyes, staring at the edge of the gas station property, marked by an old wooden fence. Dozens had left their mark on that fence, from stains of shattered beer bottles to graffiti gang symbols, tags, and one beautiful mural of a weeping Native American woman. "It's not going to end anytime soon, Jess."

She didn't answer right away, and he knew she was pursing her lips on the other end of the line. The truth was, they'd both known that was the most likely outcome. They'd clung onto each other and their love out of a hope that this could end, that they could be together. But Sam knew it had been unlikely, and each time he talked with Jess he realized she knew it too.

"Okay," she answered softly. "It's okay, Sam. We'll get through this."

"No," he shook his head. "No. I…I want you to…You shouldn't... Don't wait for me Jess."

He tried not to say it, to telegraph it, but the unvoiced I'm not coming back was audible all the same. There was a muffled sound down the line, and he knew she was crying and trying not to.

"Don't make this a goodbye, Sam." Her words were fierce and full of fire, even as the tears surely trekked down her beautiful face. "This is not goodbye. We'll…We'll take a break, yeah? But I'll be here. I will be right here, Sam."

There were tears building in his own eyes now, and he rolled his gaze skyward once more, trying to blink them away.

"I don't want you to wait, Jess."

"I won't. I won't put my life on hold for you, Sam Winchester." Her tone, broken with the half laugh she forced out, belied any harshness to her words and it made him smile through watery vision of his own. "I find one of those cute pre-meds back at school and I'm gone."

Sam choked out a laugh. He could hear her smile through her tears, even as her voice softened and her words turned sincere. "Just because I'm not with you doesn't mean I'm not here. I will never stop loving you Sam. And I will always be here for you."

He bowed his head, water flowing freely down his face and hitting the cement below. He did not deserve this woman.

"So you will call me when you need me. You hear me, Sam?"

He sniffed but laughed, and she joined him in their bittersweet love. "I hear you."

The rumble of an engine caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. Dean had climbed into the Impala and was pulling away from the pump, maneuvering the muscle car to an empty parking spot across the gas station. The car idled for a second, then shut off and Dean didn't climb out.

Sam knew what his brother was offering without words, so he turned back to his phone and asked Jess how her first term back at Stanford was going.

-o-o-o-

Dean didn't ask about Jess when Sam climbed back into the car, but the younger man knew he wanted to. He thought about offering up the information, but he was tired. Tired of playing mediator between himself and his brother when the wrongs lay mostly in Dean's court. Tired of this game, this hunt that never seemed to end. He felt weary down to his bones, and if his brother was right about what was coming, it wasn't going to end anytime soon.

"What's it like?" he asked instead, head tilted back against the seat as he stared out the top of the windshield at the world passing them by. His periphery caught the curious look his brother shot him, so he clarified what he thought was fairly obvious. "Time travel."

"It sucks," Dean answered obnoxiously. The blunt, immediate response made Sam chuckle, despite his dour mood. "You don't poop for like a week."

The younger brother laughed again, but shook his head. That's not what he meant and he had a feeling Dean knew it. "No, I mean what's it like? Being…back?"

His brother fell silent for a moment, eyes on the road as he contemplated his next words. After a moment, Dean wrapped his knuckles against the steering wheel and nodded to himself, as if coming to an internal conclusion. "It ain't a cakewalk, I'll tell you that much."

Sam turned his head to finally take his brother fully in. The older hunter chanced a glance his way. "Some of it's good. Seeing you – all wide eyed and schoolboy innocent."

The brunette huffed again while his brother smirked. "Jerk."

"Bitch. Seeing Bobby again." The drop of that smile, that smugness, was so instantaneous it almost took Sam's breath away. He recognized what his brother was doing suddenly. Dean had a hard time trusting people, and a harder time talking when it wasn't bravado. When the older Winchester finally faced both, it was a one-shot rush sort of thing. No time to pause, no time to think or change his mind.

It sobered Sam as quickly as it had quieted Dean, and he stared at his brother, the words registering slowly in his already full mind.

"When?"

Dean shook his head. "Not for a long time. Tough old bastard makes it through the apocalypse."

His brother shot him a grin, though he could see the bitter sadness behind it. Others that they knew weren't going to have the same fortune. Like their dad. Sam looked away. "As long as we don't change it."

Dean sucked in a breath of his own, air taken from his lungs like a punch to the diaphragm. He refocused on the road and ignored the creak of Baby's leather beneath his white-knuckled grip. "Right. As long as we don't change it."

-o-o-o-

"Did this happen last time?" Sam asked out of nowhere, several hours of silence between them and the last bout of rapid-fire questions he'd had for his brother. It was late – or early, depending on perspective – and the roads were empty and quiet.

"Did what happen? The kid?"

"My vision of him."

"Yeah. You saw the dad gassed in the garage," Dean answered, thinking back on what had been happening prior to them showing up on the Miller's front steps. "I was sure it wasn't real; just a nightmare. Guess I didn't want it to be real.""

"This was the first one I told you about?"

"No," Dean shook his head, "just the first one that wasn't about you. Jess, the old house; those had direct lines to you. I couldn't figure out why you'd be getting visions of some random dude in Michigan."

Sam was quiet for a moment as he digested that. Truth be told, he hadn't stopped to wonder. It had been a vision, as painful and disjointed as all the others. Well, maybe this one was less painful. His head had hurt, but he hadn't had the full migraine like the others gave him.

"Why am I dreaming of Jim Miller?"

Dean clenched his jaw for a moment, muscles along his neck flexing with the movement. Sam wondered for a moment if he'd lie again, or just not answer. But it only took a moment for his brother to respond, "Because Max is one of Azazel's kids. You're all connected, and you're gonna keep getting visions of 'em. All of 'em."

"How many more are there?"

The blonde shook his head. "Honestly? We never did a headcount. I know of about a dozen."

Sam sat in silence for a moment, wanting to ask the next question but really not wanting to know the answer. He'd heard enough terrible things for one night. "What happens to them?"

When they'd covered the apocalypse, Dean had rather glossed over the details he knew would hit his brother hardest. At least, he'd skipped the ones he could get away with, knowing they'd come back around eventually. He'd hoped to give the kid at least a couple hours respite between bad bouts of news, though.

"Azazel pits you all against one another in a Battle Royale," he answered honestly in one long breath. "The idea being the winner takes Lucifer to the Prom."

Sam frowned immediately. "I thought you said I was destined to do that from the start."

"You are. We both are." Dean switched on the wiper blades as rain started splattering down from the sky. "Problem with prophecies is they're not all that specific, and Hell wasn't taking chances. So that yellow eyed bastard found as many kids as he could. Up their odds of finding the right one, I guess."

The younger Winchester didn't have any more questions after that, fists slowly clenching against his thighs as he added a dozen more tallies to the list of lives he would be responsible for in the upcoming years.

-o-o-o-

It wasn't long after the sun came up that Dean's phone rang. They were outside Lansing, only an hour from Max Miller's home address. The older hunter glanced at the small screen listing the calling number, a curious frown on his face as he flipped it open.

So not Bobby then.

"Hello?" There was nothing but silence for Sam's part. Whoever was answering on the other line was soft-spoken enough that he couldn't catch anything from the tinny whispers. But by the way his brother's shoulders went rigid and his eyes wide and unfocused, recalling a long-ago memory, Sam was instantly alert.

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I can't."

The younger Winchester tilted his head at the name and it's similarity to the angel Dean had spoken of before. He immediately dismissed it given his brother's distant expression. This clearly wasn't the same person.

"My brother and I…we're, uh…we're on something we can't put off. But I'll…" Dean cleared his throat, running a hand over his mouth. His brother watched him curiously, having rarely seen his brother flustered before. And never by some civilian. "I'll send another hunter your way. He's the best."

The voice on the other line got even fainter.

"It's not about that, Cas-Cassie." Dean responded softy, gaze lowering to his lap. "I swear, I'd come if I could. But I'm sending you the best. He'll stop whatever's going on. I promise."

There were barely other words exchanged before the man from the future slipped the phone shut. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to so much as look at his questioning brother. When Sam tried asking, Dean shrugged it off, naming the mysterious caller an old friend who had a case for them. With that, he pulled his phone back open and dialed Bobby to fill him in on the details, of which Dean, of course, knew everything.

-o-o-o-

"I get that Max is important. I want to save him and his family," Sam spoke up several miles later, "but this friend-"

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," his brother answered immediately, eyes still on the road. "It's a ghost running people off the road. Nothing Bobby can't handle. He even knows where to find the object it's tied to. Doesn't get easier than that."

And boy, was it nice to finally be able to openly use that future knowledge he had in hunts. He was damn tired of tiptoeing around cases he could wrap up in an hour with what he knew.

Sam didn't have a counter argument his brother would accept, so he fell silent for several more miles. "I didn't know you had female friends."

Dean finally looked at him, though it was hardly friendly.

"I have tons of female friends," he replied defensively, opening his mouth to continue only to falter. His gaze darted back to the road and he cleared his throat. "Just none we've met yet."

Sam chuckled at that. He watched his brother for another moment longer. "Were you close?"

Dean licked his lips, gaze darting to his side mirror to avoid looking at his brother. Thoughts of that beautiful young woman waiting for him to show up, to reconcile their terrible ending, filled his head. He'd never forgotten Cassie, and the minute he'd heard her voice, he'd recognized it. She was his first real love. But that was a long time ago now and the apocalypse was more important. Bobby could help Cassie, and Dean's reconciliation could take a back-seat to saving his brother.

"It's in the past, Sam. Has been for a long time for me."

"Okay," Sam replied softly, hearing more than his brother meant to say, but understanding. After all, the words he'd shared with Jess only hours ago were still ringing in his own mind.

-o-o-o-

Three blocks away from the Miller house, Dean pulled into a gas station, climbed out of the Impala and headed for the trunk. Sam followed, brow furled curiously. They still had half a tank from the stop in Rochester.

He caught the haphazardly thrown bundle of clothing from his brother and stared down in surprise at a suit, tie, and white dress shirt. He raised an eyebrow in Dean's direction.

"Feds get a lot further than repairmen."

Sam's mouth dropped open in surprise as Dean chucked something else at him that he caught on instinct. It was a badge – a really good fake – that read Federal Bureau of Investigation. He almost dropped it.

"Impersonating repair guys and wildlife services is one thing, but FBI?" He stared at his brother in open shock. "Dean, that's a felony!"

The man from the future just shrugged, heading for the gas station's attached restrooms. Sam followed after him, surprise still coloring his features. This was clearly not the first time his brother had done this. Not to mention the badge job was top-notch, something that only came with experience. He must have anticipated Sam would need one as well, considering he had purchased a suit in the younger Winchester's size.

"How many times have you impersonated a fed?"

"FBI, CIA, Homeland Security. Whatever, man. It's all the same; I lost track years ago."

Sam just kept staring, even after his brother ducked inside the restroom to change into a suit he never imagined his brother would wear so comfortably.

-o-o-o-

They pulled up to the curb outside of the Miller house after one of the longest drives Dean could ever remember. Sam was roller-coastering between melancholy and fierce curiosity. Not that he could blame the kid. It was a dump of downright unpleasant information Dean had given him.

Sam had always been a good man – one of the best Dean had ever known. It nearly killed the kid the first time he learned what he had unleashed on the world. That time, though, he'd had spiraling emotions, condemnation from his father, and abandonment by his brother to blame it on, to help explain why he'd done what he did, made the choices he made. To help him rationalize, accept, and fix it. This time it was just a man from the future, guaranteeing he'd make the mistakes that would try to end the world, with no real proof or reason why.

And this Sam, without Jess's death, without Dean's death, had no context. There was no way he could ever accept, could even understand, how he could ever be driven to do such a thing.

Dean wanted to believe that he wouldn't. He wanted to tell his kid brother that they'd stop it, that he was already off the path. But the man from the future knew this wasn't actually about him or Sam. Hell would never let them leave that road, and neither would Heaven. Each side was tenacious, cruel in the lengths they would go in their pursuit, and had the time and resources to force the Winchester's hands. They would find a way to turn his brother, of that he had no doubt.

It wasn't Sam he didn't trust with the coming Apocalypse. It was Hell, which he knew all too well.

"It looks pretty calm," Sam spoke up beside him, pulling his attention back to the suburban street they sat parked along. Sam had his head turned out the passenger window, staring at the house that looked so normal. Uneventful. "Maybe it hasn't happened yet."

"Maybe," Dean replied distantly, leaning over in his seat to stare at the innocuous house as well. "Only one way to find out."

"Do you know what's going to happen?" Sam asked before his brother could open the door.

Dean shrugged, still watching the house. "I don't remember much about the details. He killed his dad in the garage, think he went after his stepmom with a knife."

"And we stopped him?"

His brother didn't answer right away, thinking back to that floating knife, to his floating gun, and his brother pleading with a child who shared blood with him in all of the worst ways. He sighed, closing his eyes as he remembered how that confrontation had ended. "He killed himself. But the stepmom lived."

Sam was staring at him when he opened his eyes again.

"Can we change it? Can we save him?"

Dean straightened, broken arm reaching for the handle and pushing open the driver's side door with a squeak of metal. "Only one way to find out."

-o-o-o-

Max opened the door to two men in monkey suits who held up badges for him to glance at before flipping them closed and listing their names as Agents Simmons and Freely. The one that did all the talking seemed confident and in charge. Max immediately disliked him. His partner though was young, probably his own age if he had to guess, and couldn't figure out where to put his hands. Probably new to the job. Max didn't like him much either.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, kid. We'd like to have a word with you," the older replied, giving his partner a measured look that made the man finally settle his arms by his sides. Max stared unimpressed at them.

"About what?"

Agent Simmons opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Max's father appearing over his shoulder, staring at the two suited men on his front steps. "What's this about?"

"Jim Miller?" The younger one asked, eyes wide in surprise and slight awe. Max frowned and immediately liked him even less.

His partner cast another warning look his way. Then he pulled out his badge once more, holding it up for Max's father. "FBI, sir. We just need to speak with your son."

"What have you done now?" his father growled down at him. Max tried to hide the flinch, but he knew he'd failed when both FBI agents straightened.

"Nothing," Max answered back through clenched teeth.

"He hasn't done anything wrong, sir," the younger agent said quickly, compassion in his eyes that made Max want to hit him.

"We think he may have witnessed a crime," the older partner added fluidly. "Witnesses placed your son and his friends near the scene of a burglary up on State and Center two days ago. We're just hoping Max might have seen something that could help us out."

Max's head shot forward with the hard slap that his father delivered to the back of his skull.

"What did I tell you about hanging out with those friends of yours, boy? Bunch of no-good low lives!"

Max grit his teeth, hand clenching into a fist as he straightened back up. It took all the strength he had to keep his breathing steady, to keep his hand from shooting out and strangling his father with those gifts he'd been given. He'd been practicing, like the yellow eyed man said, and he knew he could do it.

"That's enough!" The younger agent took a step forward, catching his father's wrist before he could deliver a second blow. His hazel eyes were fierce and locked on Max's father.

The older agent cleared his throat, but his gaze was reprimanding as well. "I think we'll speak to Max in private."

Max released the tension in his muscles and felt the vibration beneath his skin fade away as he did. Not now. Not in front of feds. He would kill his father, as he'd promised himself he would. He'd do it tonight, as planned, in the garage, where he could make it look like a suicide. Then no one would suspect a thing and he could finally be free of the bastard.

"Max?" The younger agent was holding his arm out, gesturing for him to walk down the drive towards the street. He straightened and pushed past both agents, not bothering to look back at his fuming father.

-o-o-o-

"Okay, who the hell are you guys?" The kid spun around as soon as they were by the curb, far enough away from the house for some privacy. "I wasn't anywhere near State and Center two days ago."

"We know," Sam answered, hands raised in placation.

"Just needed to get you away from douche-dad of the year," Dean added, dropping the fed persona as easily as he would later shed the monkey suit.

Max watched them through narrowed eyes, suspicion clear. "Why?"

"Because we really do need to talk," the younger Winchester supplied.

"About what?"

"You, kid. And your abilities." Dean kept his body language fairly open even as Max's immediately tensed and shut down. There was a moment of tense, deadly silence between them before the kid's hand shot out.

Dean got out half a curse, hand going for his gun even as it slipped from his hip and flew into the air between them. Max's outstretched hand almost touched the butt of the gun as it levitated in the middle of the three men, aimed pointedly at Dean.

"Whoa, whoa!" Sam made an aborted move forward, stopping when the weapon swung in his direction. He glanced around quickly, surveying the quiet suburban street for both witnesses and collateral. "It's okay, Max. I have them too."

The look on the kids face clearly said that was the last thing he'd expected to hear. His hand wavered for a moment, and the gun shook before steadying in the air once more. "What?"

"Not exactly like yours," Sam kept going, hands still raised. "I get these visions-"

"What sort of visions?"

"Death premonitions," Dean supplied, still eyeing his own gun still trained on his brother.

Max pulled a face, switching between the two brothers. "That's crazy."

Dean snorted, then immediately pulled a straight face when the gun jerked back towards him. He raised his hands as well, following his brother's lead. "Says the guy currently Harry Houdini-ing a gun."

"Max." Sam pushed his hands forward calmingly, catching the kid's attention. He was using the soft, puppydog voice he only used with victims, that one he'd eventually grow out of. "We just want to talk. We think they're connected – your powers, my visions. I think they come from the same place."

"The yellow eyed man," Max mumbled, eyes still darting between the two.

"You've seen him?" Sam lowered his hands, eyebrows raised. If Azazel had been messing with Max too then they'd have to protect him. Maybe they could make another deal, or lure the bastard into a trap and kill him once and for all.

"He comes to me in dreams," the kid answered, eyes focused on the younger Winchester. "Tells me…"

"What's he tell you, kid?"

Max's gaze flickered to Dean but when he spoke, he addressed Sam. "Did you have a vision of me? Am I going to die?"

"No, you're not-"

"He had a vision of your dad," Dean interrupted. They needed to cut to the chase here, not smother the kid with pity. Or answer that question honestly. "Dead, in the garage, because you killed him."

"What…" The kid's face scrunched up in confusion, and then flattened out in realization. "Are you here to stop me?"

Given the incredulous tone, they weren't likely to talk him down from that murderous ledge as easily as they'd assumed.

"Max-"

"You saw him back there!" he cut Sam off before the hunter could even get started. "You think that's bad? That's not even the tip of the iceberg."

"Max, I know you've had it rough-"

"Rough?" The psychic's face reddened, his glower darkening with rage. Dean's eyes darted down to Max's free hand, fisting by his side, and the one splayed out in front of him controlling his gun. Both were shaking, and the gun trembled in the air to match. Man, he'd really hoped to get out of this situation without getting shot.

"You can't kill your parents," he retorted sharply, calling the kid's attention back to him and off of his brother. "No matter how much they deserve it."

"Why not?" Max rebuked, staring him down with the resolve of a kid who'd already accepted the consequence and made his decision regardless. "Who's gonna stop me? You?"

Dean pulled his shoulders back, staring down the little shit with resolve of his own. "If I have to."

"Okay, everyone calm down," Sam interrupted, stepping between them and coming almost abreast to the floating gun. At least anyone passing on the street behind them wouldn't see the levitating weapon anymore. "Max, we can help you."

"I don't need help. I'm strong now." Despite the watery sheen to his eyes, the kid stood tall and Sam faltered as he realized that talking him down might not even be an option anymore. "The yellow eyed man was right; I can make sure they never hurt me again."

"We'll get your parents locked away," Sam tried again, only to have Max once more cut him off.

"That's not good enough!"

"Really?" Dean laughed, bringing the kids anger his way once more. "Have you seen your father? He's not gonna do well in prison, kid. He'll get what he deserves."

"They deserve to die!"

Sam's shoulders slouched slightly as he stared at the kid no older than he was, who'd obviously had just as shitty a childhood, if not far worse. John had never touched him – not bad enough to qualify as abuse. No, his weapon of choice hadn't been fists; it had been neglect and disappointment.

"That's how you get revenge?" Dean scoffed, the condescension in his voice clear as day.

"Yes!"

"Why?" Dean took a step forward, towards the gun and the kid. Sam's train of thought shifted to whether or not his idiot of an older brother was under the delusion that he was bullet proof. "They won't even know it was you. They'll just die, never having to own up to anything they did wrong. Never knowing you were the one that put them in their place."

"Dean…" Sam tried to caution his brother, concern seriously mounting. But Max just took a step back. His posture faltered as he stared at the older man with something broken in his expression. The gun lowered an inch, and it was obvious the kid's focus was no longer on it. "Let us help you, Max. We'll get your parents arrested. We can get you help."

"You mean a shrink," the kid answered back, but the anger was gone from his voice, replaced with bitterness. "Been there. I think I can handle myself."

The gun clattered to the sidewalk as Max turned and headed back up the drive without another word.

Sam let out a long sigh, rubbing his hands down his face. Dean bent over, scooping up the gun and checking the ivory hilt and cartridge for damage. He tucked it back into his hip holster, safely hidden away by the front flap of his suit jacket. Sam watched him do all of it so mechanically, rote motion par for the course.

Dean caught the look and frowned at him. "What?"

Sam shook his head and turned towards the Impala, parked a couple feet further down the street.

"The kid wants to stick it to his parents," Dean defended himself as he followed after his younger brother. "I figured pointing out the flaw in his plan might stop him."

"Oh, yeah, he totally seems stable now." Sam wrenched open the side door as Dean moved around to the passenger side. "Nice work."

"Shut up," Dean muttered, ducking into the Impala. "It worked, didn't it?"

-o-o-o-

Bobby clucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he sat in the Robinson's parlor, shotgun resting against the edge of the couch, tea untouched on the coffee table, and lighter tucked in his breast pocket, still warm from going Son of Sam on a racist truck.

"So..." He bobbed his head absently at the mother daughter duo sitting across from him just as awkwardly. "You and Dean, huh?"

Cassie shot him a dark glower as Mrs. Robinson glanced between the two of them, eyebrows raised and motherly interest clearly peaked.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 27

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Winchesters camped out in the Impala that night, parked on the curb across the street and two houses down from the Millers. Sam and Dean had spent the afternoon catching up on the sleep they'd missed driving through the night, fairly confident nothing would happen since Sam's vision of Jim Miller dying in his garage had definitely shown a nighttime attack. So there they were, stuck watching the quiet house through the late hours of the night for signs of movement in the garage in case Max went through with his murderous plan.

Jim Miller came home at 11:15 in his two door sedan, Michigan license plate a dead match for Sam's death premonition. The Winchesters watched, tense, as Mr. Miller climbed out of his car, made his way towards the door to the house, and pressed the button for the garage door to close.

Sam and Dean waited with another held breath as the light flickered off and everything remained perfectly calm. Dean turned the engine over and the Impala crept forward until they were across the street from the Miller house. He turned off the car, the smooth rumbling falling silent in the still night.

They couldn't hear an engine running from the garage, heard no screams for help or any disturbance of any kind, really. Dean shared a look with Sam, and the two settled in to make sure that didn't change for the rest of the night.

-o-o-o-

When the sun peaked over the first house at six thirty, Dean let out a jaw-splitting yawn. He reached for the keys, ready to call it and go find some sanctuary in flat pillows and stained motel sheets. "Think we're good?"

Sam was still watching the house, a gnawing deep in his stomach causing him to question the obvious. Jim Miller hadn't died in the garage overnight. There'd been no commotion in the house whatsoever, and Sam's vision had definitely taken place at night. Still, the hunter couldn't shake the firmly planted dread.

But, to be honest, he'd had had that pit in his stomach since Dean told him the apocalypse was well on its way and they were the main stars.

"Yeah," he finally answered, pulling his gaze away from the house with some difficulty. He settled in into the leather seat, forcing himself not to look back. "Yeah, let's go get some sleep."

Dean hummed happily in agreement, put Baby into gear, and pulled away from the Miller house.

-o-o-o-

Sam woke from blood and cries for help to Dean shaking him almost desperately.

"Sammy! Wake up!"

The younger Winchester shot upright in the motel bed, lungs heaving and sweat pooling along the planes of his body. Disoriented, he snatched at his brother's chest, Dean already holding on to Sam's shoulder with his casted left arm, unbroken limb grabbing the younger man's forearm to shake him awake.

"Dean?"

His brother let out a sigh of relief, but the tension didn't leave his body as he took a step away from the bed. Sam let him go, releasing his fistful of Dean's shirt.

"Yeah," Dean breathed out, scrubbing a hand through his short hair as he stared at his heaving, wide-eyed brother. "Well that's not a good sign."

Sam shook his head, memories he'd carry with him for months to come flashing across his eyelids again. So much blood. The younger Winchester kicked away the tangled sheets and swung his legs over the bed. "We gotta go. We gotta go right now."

"Right." Dean nodded, already grabbing his jeans and working his legs into them as he half-hopped towards the dresser and the keys to the Impala.

-o-o-o-

"You gonna tell me what you saw?" his brother finally asked as they raced through midday traffic of south town Sagginaw, back towards the Millers.

Sam clenched his jaw, staring straight ahead. "Just drive faster."

Dean complied, the engine rumbling with approval as he navigated suburban streets at very illegal speeds.

-o-o-o-

The Impala screeched to a halt outside the Miller house, leaving tire treads right up to the curb. Sam was out of the car before Dean had the engine off, and his older brother followed immediately after him. The two raced for the front door, Sam pounding on the wood as soon as he was within reach.

"Max! Mr. Miller?" Sam continued beating the door long past the point where it was obvious no one was going to answer. Dean finally pushed his younger brother to the side and delivered a swift kick to the wood, splintering the edge of the door and taking the lock with it.

The two brothers rushed into the Miller house. Sam took the lead, no hesitation in his run as he headed straight for the kitchen. Dean drew up short as soon as they skidded onto the tile. He didn't catch the sound that made it past his throat as he threw the back of his hand over his mouth and turned away from the site that greeted them.

"Jesus!" Dean slid his eyes shut against the horrific image, hand cupping over his mouth.

Shoulders slumped, Sam stared at the two bodies poised exactly as he had seen in his sleep. Mr. and Mrs. Miller both lay on the floor, pools of blood surrounding their still warm bodies. Alice Miller was face up on the tiles, the only identifiable part left of her was her blonde hair, haloed out around a swollen face, purpled and split in so many places she looked more like flayed meat than a human being. Jim Miller was collapsed half on his side, knife sticking out of his throat, buried to the hilt with his own hand still wrapped around the handle.

Sam finally turned away when he saw the bloodied, broken skin of Jim's knuckles wrapped around the blade and knew it had been those hands that inflicted the damage to his wife's body.

"Why?" he mumbled, more to himself than to the silence of a room where half its occupants were dead. He grabbed at the sides of his head, remembering the way Max had stood there and watched as Jim Miller was forced to beat his wife to death and then stab himself. Max had just watched. Watched like his stepmother had watched for twenty three years. Sam let out a feral cry, slamming his hand into the doorframe of the kitchen. "Why have these visions if we can't stop them? What's the point!"

Dean didn't answer, but his thoughts weren't far from his brother's. He could, after all, relate more now than ever before. Steeling himself, the man from the future turned back into the room and the results of his careless presence in this timeline.

"This isn't on you," he replied softly, though his voice was rough with anger and guilt. He stared at Alice Miller, dead and bloodied because of him. "I'm the one who pushed the kid."

Yeah, he had. Sam looked to his brother rather than the gruesome scene in front of them. Dean may have pushed the psychic in the worst direction he possibly could have, but he hadn't seen Max's face, watching his father murder his stepmom. Sam had. There was no talking anyone out of that.

"It's not on you either," he responded after a moment. Dean snorted, his opinion of that clear enough, but Sam pushed on, "The only one responsible for this is Max."

"Well, he'll be in the wind now." Dean glanced around at the blood splattered walls, the half-prepared meal lying untouched on the kitchen counter, the bloody shoe prints pressed into the carpet to leave a trail towards the back of the house. He took the scene in with a cop's eye. "Even with the murder/suicide look, the police will want to question him. If he knows what's good for him, he's long gone."

"The kicked in door and additional suspects will help his cause," Sam added quietly, looking pointedly down at their own booted feet. Dean may have managed not to enter the kitchen far enough to contaminate the scene, but he'd stepped through one of Max's bloody footprints on the way in and that would be enough for the cops to know there were multiple perpetrators.

"Damn it," Dean muttered, patting himself down. With his good arm, he pulled a handkerchief and then another from his back pocket. "We need to wipe down any place we might have left prints. That wall, front door…"

Sam held his hand out for the second handkerchief, but Dean had trailed off, staring at the blue and white fabric clenched in his hand. The younger Winchester raised a brow when his brother didn't move. "Dean?"

"I've done this before."

Sam frowned at the whispered words, hand still held out for the cloth. Sure, they'd had to wipe down evidence of their presence at dozens of crime scenes throughout their life (and yet Dean still thought they had a good childhood). Somehow, Sam doubted that's what his brother was talking about, though. "You mean the murders? I thought you said the stepmom lived the first time."

"No, I mean this." He shook his hand with the handkerchief in it, still staring at the fabric. Finally he lifted his gaze, first taking in his brother and then the room around them. Given the distant glint to his eye, though, Sam doubted it was the Miller house he was seeing. "We were…we were on a fire escape. Outside a window."

Sam looked around the house as well, not sure what his brother was seeing or even looking for. But he let him work through the deja vu, if that's what it was. Dean went rigid, whatever memory he was trying to access finally secured in his brain. He turned to his brother, eyes wide.

"The window was covered in blood."

"What?" Sam blinked, then blinked again as something twinged just behind his eyes. Dean was already moving through, darting forward to wipe down the wall Sam had slammed his palm into.

"Max didn't just kill his dad," his brother said as he hastily wiped at the wall. "He killed his uncle too!"

Sam tilted his head at the pressure behind his eyeball grew to encompass his temple. It didn't hurt, but it certainly wasn't a pleasant feeling either. Nor was it a good sign. He started moving, grabbing the second cloth from his brother and heading for the front door. If Max was going after someone else, then they had to go. Quickly. He stumbled on his way there, intent to wipe free of any evidence of their earlier pounding completely derailed as the pressure in his head flared, overriding his balance. He crashed into the living room wall.

"Sammy?" Dean was by his side in a second, steadying him with an arm to either shoulder. Sam sank to his knees, hand pressed to his temple as both the pressure and the Miller's living room were replaced with flashes of light and then instant clarity.

He was standing on the curb outside an apartment complex in the setting sunlight of dusk, gold lettering on the front door reading Saginam Manor. Sam frowned, turning first left and then right in the relatively quiet urban area. Whistling caught his attention, and the hunter turned to see a man emerge from around the building, twirling car keys on his finger. He strolled up to the door, entering a four digit code to enter the building. Four five two eight. The door beeped and the man – who Sam could only assume was Max Miller's uncle – slipped through the glass doors.

"Hey!" Sam took a step towards the man, but a flash of light blinded him and he covered his eyes with his forearm, stumbling back a step. As soon as his vision cleared, he turned around only to find himself in an apartment. He spun again as keys jingled in the door.

The same man stepped through the front entrance, turned the key and pulled them from the lock. He resumed his earlier whistle, tossing the keys into a bowl on an entrance table as he walked right past Sam like he wasn't even there.

"Hey."

Max's uncle shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on the kitchenette table as he headed into the galley style kitchen. Frustrated, Sam followed after.

"Hey!"

A shadow moved in his periphery and Sam spun around before he made it to the kitchen. Max. He was here. Sam moved into the hallway as Max's uncle pulled a beer from the fridge, cracking it with the bottle opener magnet off the side of the fridge. Sam glanced either way down the hall, keen eyes looking for any sign of Max.

"Hello, Uncle Roger."

The hunter spun around, only to find Max standing between him and the kitchen, his back to the hunter as he faced down his uncle. Roger, for his part, looked up from his beer with a hint of surprise on his face, quickly replaced by derision.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he groused to his nephew, taking a sip of his beer and moving to push past Max. The kid stood firm, however, and the beer suddenly shattered in Roger's hand.

"What the hell-" Roger hissed as he grabbed at his hand, a shard of green glass sticking out of his palm. "Son of a bitch!"

He ignored his nephew, moving instead for the sink. He froze, however, when the glass rattled on the floor. Roger stared down at it, a frown across his face which quickly morphed into horror as the shards lifted off the ground and aligned themselves to hover in front of his face between him and Max.

"What-"

"How does it feel?" Max stood, jaw shaking in anger and eyes furious in concentration and hatred. With clenched fists, he jerked his head to the side. Sam shouted out a warning, but no one reacted to him as a single piece of green glass flew forward like lighting.

Roger yelped, stumbling back and grabbing at his cheek and the fresh slice through his skin. He looked down at his hand, the blood dotting his fingertips, and then back at his nephew in renewed horror.

"Max…"

"I'm going to repay every bruise you ever gave me. Piece. By. Piece."

"Max, don't!" Sam tried to move forward, to stop him, but his arm went right through the kid. Nothing but a vision of something that hadn't happened yet.

"No, Max, wait, please!" Roger stumbled backward, back hitting the wall and kitchen window that led to the fire escape beyond. Another piece of glass flew forward and Roger lifted his arms in self-defense. He cried out as the glass sliced through the flesh of his forearm, far deeper than the first cut.

Max's eyes narrowed as his uncle looked back up at him in realization. The remaining glass pieces twitched, and Roger's eyes widened as they all moved towards him at once. Sam knew he was about to watch Roger Miller get cut to shreds.

Suddenly, the front door burst inward with a bang and, as one, Sam and Max spun towards the interruption.

"Sammy!"

Sam jerked back to the present, shooting forward so suddenly that Dean had to grab onto him to keep him from slamming straight into the side table by his head.

"We gotta go," he whispered hoarsely, vision still spinning.

"Yup," was all his brother said, already pulling the unsteady psychic to his feet and hauling him towards the front door. "You got an address?"

"Close enough to one," Sam muttered, hand pressed to his head. Dean stopped them just long enough to give the front door a messy wipe down with the handkerchief, and then the two were moving down the drive towards the haphazardly parked Impala.

-o-o-o-

Pushing the car as fast as they could in broad daylight, the brothers headed to the address listed under Saginam Manor Apartments in the Yellow Pages. Out of nowhere, the tension in the car having created a heavy silence between the two, Dean hit the steering wheel. Sam startled, turning to his brother as the older hunter let out a frustrated grunt.

"It doesn't make sense."

Sam snorted. "What part?"

"All of it!" Dean shook his head, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his hand again. "This didn't happen last time."

"Yeah, but our presence here – you knowing what you know – would naturally change things." Sam tried to take the logical route, though he knew his brother was already well aware of what his presence would do. He'd been dealing with the reality of it for almost seven months now.

All Dean heard was Sam's nice way of avoiding the fact that he'd pushed the kid into brutally murdering his entire family.

"It's not just that," he argued back, eyes on the road as he swerved around a Volvo. "Cassie – the friend who called? We went last time. Helped her solve that case."

Yeah, Sam had kind of figured, given the details Dean had had on hand to pass on to Bobby. But he didn't exactly see how that figured into the situation with Max.

"How come, this time, she calls and we're already on our way to Max? You'd already seen him gas his dad."

The pre-law student frowned, starting to catch on to his brother's point. "Which happened first last time?"

Dean let out an annoyed growl deep in his throat. "I don't know, not for sure. But I think we wrapped the thing with Cassie first. Either way, they weren't on top of each other, not like this. I'd remember that."

Which made sense. Right now, they were separate memories for Dean, which made placing them in chronological order harder. If there had been overlap, Dean likely would be able to recall the thing that tied the memories together. But what could have changed?

"You think Cassie called later?" Sam asked, thoughts spinning with theoreticals and paradoxes. There was a reason people wrote entire papers on the concept of time and traveling through it.

"What would make her do that?" Dean countered, clenching his jaw. "Time travel ain't the clearest thing, but as I understand it, nothing should change that we don't change ourselves."

"So Cassie should have gone through the same actions at the same time," Sam reasoned out loud.

"Max too. At least until we got here."

Sam pursed his lips, mind racing. If both parties should have followed the same path before Dean and Sam interacted with them, then something else, another force connected to Dean's time travel, must have interfered to speed up one of them.

"Unless it's a butterfly effect."

Dean arched a brow his direction. "A what?"

"Butterfly effect," Sam repeated. "You know, a butterfly flaps its wings in California today, tomorrow there's a typhoon in the Philippines?"

Dean was staring at him like he was crazy, and the younger of the two rolled his eyes,

"It's the idea that the smallest of actions can have ripple effects, creating disproportionally larger reactions that are impossible to predict." Which could explain why Cassie or Max had changed their actions. It was probably far more complicated than they could ever track, with any number of degrees of separation between whatever Dean did and the end result of one of them moving up their time table, but it wasn't impossible. It was, however, really bad news for them.

That was one theoretical problem with time travel. If whatever they did effected non-local change, then there was no way they could keep those changes small. There would always be too many variables, too many ways the world was connected to avoid the domino effect.

"Well it better not be that," Dean groused, the vein in his temple twitching as he clenched his jaw painfully. "We've done a hell of a lot more than flap some butterfly wings here, Sammy."

The younger Winchester wisely didn't respond to that, instead turning his gaze out the windshield and silently urging the Impala to go faster.

-o-o-o-

Outside the apartment, Dean threw the Impala into park and reached for the door, but Sam's hand wrapping around his forearm held him up.

"Dean, you can't take your gun in there." Sam was staring at him like the statement was an obvious one, but Dean did a double take, glancing at the .45 in his hand.

"I'm not going in there unarmed, Sammy. And neither are you!"

"He's already taken your gun once," the younger Winchester argued back, "and last time you said he killed himself with it."

That, if nothing else, gave Dean pause, but ultimately he shook his head. "What the hell am I supposed to do? The guy can take a knife off me as easily as a gun, Sam, and I'm not going in there unarmed."

With that, the older Winchester climbed out of the car, tucking his ivory laid pistol into the back of his jeans. Sam gave him a look over the roof of the car, which Dean pointedly ignore.

"Look," he said as they moved around the car, hastily jogging towards the double glass doors that marked the front of the apartment complex, "I won't pull it unless I intend to use it."

The look his younger brother sent him spoke volumes as to what Sam though of that plan. He punched in the four digit code Dean could only assume he'd seen in his vision and the security box beeped, the sound of the lock releasing from the door. Dean pulled it open, gesturing his brother inside.

"He probably has to see it to use it, right?" the man from the future continued as they started through the halls, looking for the elevator. His brother shrugged beside him, still looking unconvinced. "So, I won't pull it unless I intend to use it before he can."

Sam drew up short even as they rounded the corner to the bank of elevators, staring at his brother. The older man didn't stop moving, reaching the wall and pressing the up button. Sam was slower to join him, but didn't argue his point. The young hunter knew they were quickly approaching the point where Dean's solution would be their only solution.

-o-o-o-

They burst into the apartment, Max spinning around to see them as Roger Miller pressed himself against the kitchen window, clutching his bleeding forearm. Glass shards clinked like a mockery of a peaceful wind chime as what was left of the beer bottle fell to the kitchen tiles under Max's shift in focus.

"Get out!"

Sam raised his hands in placation, but was already shaking his head regretfully. "We can't do that, Max. We can't let you kill him."

"It's none of your business!" the traumatized man yelled, face reddening. "I won't let you stop me!"

Max spun back to the kitchen to find Roger pushing open the window, intent to escape through it. He let out a howl, jerking his head to the side and back. His uncle yelled as he went flying back into the kitchen, skidding across the kitchen tiles straight towards his nephew.

Dean's fingers twitched against his thigh to draw his gun, but he held back. He'd made his brother a promise, and one born out of a damn good point. No reason to give the kid a faster method of killing his uncle. Or himself.

Sam took a step forward, knowing his brother would intervene more forcefully if it meant saving Roger Miller's life. "Listen to me, Max. This has to stop."

"It will," he growled through clenched teeth, staring down at the man who had beat him for so many years, who had been the source of every nightmare, waking and asleep. Roger Miller curled up on himself, sobbing like a pathetic bully that he was. Max held out his hand. "After my uncle, it'll stop."

"No!" Sam moved into the kitchen and Max's field of vision, staying clear of his uncle but still with those hands raised and his eyes pleading. "You need to let him go."

"Why?" Max balked, staring at the man who knew nothing about him. Who had no idea what his life was like, the hell he had lived through. Who dared to take his revenge – his justice – away from him.

"What they did to you growing up…They deserve to be punished, Max, I get that-"

"Growing up?" Max stared at Sam with wild eyes. Suddenly, he straightened, reaching for his shirt. Dean, who had been moving in behind him, froze with his hand wrapped around the hilt of his gun, but Sam shook his head as minutely as possible. Max pulled up the hem of his shirt, well above his pectorals to reveal a hell of a bruise, blossomed across his side, over his ribs and up towards his collar bone.

Sam suddenly found himself struggling to breathe at the myriad of colors and suffering that covered the kid.

"Try four hours ago," Max bit out, lowering his shirt back down. "Guess old habits die hard."

"Your uncle wasn't at your house four hours ago," Sam tried to reason weakly, licking his lips. Even he knew it was a pathetic excuse.

"You think he's any different? So it was my dad this time. It's been him plenty of times before." Roger flinched as Max pointed at him with a shaking finger. The glass on the floor of the kitchen started to rattle around them.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, and meant it. "Why didn't you just leave?"

Max shook his head at him, eyes filled with the betrayal of yet another person failing to get him. "It wasn't about getting away. It was about being…not afraid anymore. My whole life I've been helpless…not anymore. Now I'm strong."

Max turned back to his uncle and Dean moved in, drawing his gun and pressing the muzzle flush to the man's back. Sam sucked in a breath, expecting to see the misunderstood, mistreated kid hit the floor with a bullet to his spine. But the moment came and left, his older brother standing there with the gun against Max's back and a fierce expression on his face that belied the fact he couldn't pull that trigger.

"It's over," Dean said instead, false bravado and confidence in his voice. "You're not gonna kill him."

Max tilted his head to the side, glancing from his periphery at the man behind him. He raised his arms out to the side slowly in a mockery of surrender that was anything but. The fake FBI agents both tensed, and for a single moment, Max reveled in their fear of him.

"I won't have to."

Dean swore as the gun was ripped from his grasp once more, a single shot cracking off but veering wide. He was sent flying through the air seconds later, crashing atop Roger and rolling off of him with his momentum. The man grunted beneath him, but the hunter was fairly sure he'd live.

Sam moved to tackle Max, but the gun came to a frozen halt between them, barrel aimed straight at the taller man's head. Sam glared down the length of the gun at the kid controlling it. Max smirked, holding out one hand towards Dean and his uncle. Sam tensed, expecting him to go after Roger, with nothing he or Dean could do to stop him.

Instead, his older brother let out a grunt of surprise as he straightened upright on his knees on the kitchen floor. His body was rigid and stiff, and his eyes blown wide in confusion.

"Dean?"

The hunter made a strangled noise as he suddenly bent down and landed a solid right hook straight across Roger Miller's face. The man cried out, arms coming up to his bleeding, busted nose.

"Shit!" Dean swore through gritted teeth as his broken left arm came down right after, cast splintering with a solid crack as he caught the wounded man across his cheek. Roger's head snapped to the side as Dean let out a painful cry. Fist after fist reigned down as the hunter screamed out against it. "I'm not doing it. Damn it, Sam, you gotta stop him!"

Sam took a forceful step forward but Max snapped his attention back, head tilting in a daring motion as the gun cocked between them. The hunter drew up short, teeth gritted and bared as he stared at the gun and the boy, wondering if he could get to one before the other went off.

"Sam!"

Roger Miller was barely fighting back anymore, arms weakly held up to stop the barrage of fists that hit every inch of available flesh. Dean was going to end up killing him if Sam didn't do anything.

"Damn it, Sam, knock me out!"

Max turned at the command, surprise lighting his eyes and Sam took his chance. He might not have made it to Max before the gun went off, but he could easily dodge to the side, to Dean, and out of that path of that gun, which is exactly what he did. Max didn't even have a chance to fire the weapon before Sam was tackling his brother with a right hook of his own.

Dean went down hard, head cracking against the kitchen tile loud enough to make Sam flinch. But he didn't get back up, which had been the whole idea.

Sam straightened slowly, posture stiff and dangerous, as he turned back to Max. The kid's face had a hardened look all his own, the enjoyment of this gone from his eyes. Now Sam was only in the way.

The youngest Winchester threw out his hand on instinct as soon as that gun rounded on him once more, and the weapon twitched and shook in the air as the two psychics fought for control of the device. Sam grit his teeth against the strain and put all of his focus into keeping the gun aimed away from himself, his brother, and Roger Miller. The trigger trembled beneath their opposed strengths. Max had a lot more practice, but Sam was quickly losing any reason to hold back.

"You know the difference between us?" Max asked, voice shaking from equal parts mental strain and anger. "You don't have the guts to do it. To take what you want."

The gun waivered, and then slowly but surely started towards Dean, groaning on the kitchen floor as he started to come to. Sam clenched his teeth, fingertips curling as he fought to hold the gun back but lost ground, one centimeter at a time.

He could once more feel the vibrations beneath his skin which were becoming terrifyingly familiar. Sam knew he was holding back; he could hear them singing for release, for the freedom he had granted them once, when they faced off against a lifeless hunk of metal.

The gun slipped another inch closer to his brother, coming within firing range of the downed hunter.

"You know the difference between us, Max?" He tore his eyes off the weapon to meet the watery, rage-filled gaze of the kid he could have become so easily. "I don't need a gun."

Sam released his grip on the weapon and on himself. His hand dropped and the gun went flying into the kitchen wall under the sudden pull of only one master. It fired off with a thunderous crack, the bullet ripping through the air and shattering the window. Dean weakly covered his head, limbs disoriented and only half-responsive, as glass reigned down around him.

In the same movement, Sam raised his other hand and curled his fingers into a tight, aching fist around an invisible object. Across from him, eyes still wide in surprise at the one eighty turn of events, Max suddenly choked on his own throat. His eyes bulged as he scrambled for his neck, the air within his chest turning against him as Sam squeezed his power around the man's lungs and windpipe. A torn gag ripped from the kid's throat as he started to asphyxiate on nothing, fingers clawing at his skin.

Sam knew what he had to do. Max wasn't going to stop, he couldn't be talked down. And Sam had to end it before he could kill anyone else, especially Dean.

The blood in his veins sung in release, vibrations humming through every limb as they stretched across the space between predator and prey and wrapped their icy hands around Max Miller.

"S'm…" Dean made it onto his back on the kitchen floor, hand pressed weakly against his aching jaw as he stared up at the multiple swaying men looming above him. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision with little success. "S'm, don't."

The young hunter didn't answer, his focus entirely on Max. He honed in past the shallow surface of the world, beneath skin and blood and muscle, searching for something deeper. Max shuddered, a gasp caught in his sealed throat and escaping only as a pained gurgle. Sam found his target – a weak, shuddering glow at the center of his prey. The edges flickered grey, and streaks of slimy black perforated the light like blackened veins.

If Sam could pull those out, Max would never hurt anyone ever again.

He tightened his hold on the boy, reaching his other hand up and towards the frozen man. Curling his fingers, he could feel the same slimy darkness that had wrapped around the Baku's center. Just like then, Sam moved more on sense than knowledge, clenching his power around a sliver of that taint.

Max writhed in his grip, what were surely screams cut off by his sealed throat escaped only as squeaks, but Sam was too focused to see or hear the world around him.

"Sam!" Dean was upright now and struggling to stay that way through what was no doubt a concussion. "Sam, stop, yer killin' him."

But Sam didn't stop, or perceive his brother's words beyond sound that existed out there. He was inside, beyond the physical world, a layer deeper. The power within him thrummed with that connection, and he breathed with each powerful surge sent through his body.

Max's face was turning a dangerous shade of purple and his struggles starting to falter. The edges of the light in his chest flickered further, grey beginning to crawl its way towards the center. Sam didn't pay it any attention, focused on the dark veins, the poison the demon Azazel had left behind.

"Sammy!"

The young psychic was suddenly ripped from that other world by a very physical hand wrapped around his calf, fingers gripping into jeans tight enough to bruise. Sam blinked, hands dropping as he stared down at his brother, half collapsed on the floor with his arm stretched out, hand clenched around Sam's leg. Injury-glazed eyes searched up at his own pleadingly.

"Yer not a killer, Sam." The words were slurred, but desperate. Sam could tell his brother was about half a second from passing out, yet that grip on his leg never waivered. "That's not…what those powers mean."

Max stumbled onto the floor of the kitchen, barely catching himself against the counter as he hacked and coughed. The full force of what he'd almost done hit Sam like a semi to the chest and he stumbled back a step. Dean's fingers slipped from his jeans as his brother let his head fall back to the cool tile. He was still conscious; the long, moaning groan was proof of that.

Sam stared, horrified, as Max tried to right himself using the counter as support, but it was clear he was struggling to breathe. He clutched at his chest and throat, and the young hunter paled at the deep, red finger marks starting to purple around the boy's throat. Sam hadn't even touched him.

He looked down at his hands, knowing that he hadn't needed to.

"Sam," Dean mumbled, head still pressed to the floor but he made a momentous effort to get back to his knees at the very least. Dazed green eyes started up at three tilting versions of his brother, and he tried adamantly to stay on the one in the middle. "It's okay."

It really wasn't.

Sam lowered shaky hands back to his side, the sight of them causing nothing but nausea in his stomach. He'd been trying to help. Consciously, he knew that. He'd known if he could somehow pull that darkness from Max, he could fix him. But in doing so, he'd almost killed him.

And he wouldn't have even noticed.

Hazel eyes flickered up. Max lifted his head, face still an ugly red, to meet his gaze. There was terror in his eyes that Sam had put there. The youngest Winchester opened his mouth, no clue what to say, but desperate to say something.

Max Miller's head suddenly snapped a hundred and eighty degrees around with a terrifyingly loud crack. His body slumped to the floor beside his equally unmoving uncle.

Sam stumbled back in shock, hitting the counter on the other side of the galley kitchen with legs that weren't going to hold him up for much longer. Dean scrambled back, succeeding only in falling over more than moving away. His eyes traced over the floor to the pair of dusty boots standing just past Max's now lifeless body, up past the old jeans and flannel shirt, to the pale yellow irises of the demon standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Sam, Dean," Azazel greeted with a cheerful smile on his borrowed face. "I think it's time for a chat."

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Season 1: Chapter 28

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam's head was heavy, chin swaying against his chest with each slow breath and the back of his neck aching at the harsh angle. Waking was a slow thing, his mind groggy and not particularly motivated to leave the cocoon of darkness that surrounded him. It was the invading cold, starting with his toes and crawling up his legs, mirrored in his arms and neck, that finally forced him to open his eyes.

Blobs of grays and blues swayed slowly into recognizable, if not confusing, shapes. The switch over only took a second; the moment of realization that this wasn't a hotel, that he wasn't lying in bed with the covers having slipped off, turned Sam's mind from tired and groggy to alert with whiplash-worthy speed. The hunter jerked forward, constricted lungs drawing in a sudden and forceful breath that was cut short when his ribs had no leeway to expand.

Sam's mind stumbled for a second as he looked down at his chest. Chains looped around his heaving torso, cutting each breath shallow. Both of his arms were included in the bonds, links digging in at his elbows and pressing the limbs tight to his upright body. The hunter quickly glanced over his shoulder at the thick, wooden support pillar he was strapped to. He gave a fierce tug to the chains, straining his muscles against the restraints with little success. The pillar behind him, despite being old and covered in several questionably growing things, was sturdy.

The well-trained hunter turned his gaze to the rest of the room, immediately searching for something to help in his escape. He was in an old building – possibly a hunting cabin – that was poorly lit and succumbing to what looked like years of abandonment. It was a one-room, wooden structure from what he could tell. The majority of the windows were broken, probably from rocks given the shatter patterns of what glass remained. Most of the furniture that was left standing didn't look like it would stay that way for long. Several walls sported graffiti of various forms, from spray paint to splatter that looked a lot like blood, but given the obvious teenage hangout vibe of the abandoned building, Sam guessed was nothing more than red paint.

If there was a door into the cabin, it was behind him where he couldn't see it. There was nothing within reach that was going to help against chains, and nothing he could reach either way, restrained as he was. The stillness of the world beyond the cabin – the rustle of pine trees and leaves, the occasional twitter of a bird or the scuttle of a ground animal – suggested yelling for help was going to be just as useless.

His best bet at this point was his brother.

"Dean."

Sam strained against the chains once more just for good measure as he called out to the older man, who was collapsed, unbound, by the wall opposite Sam. He was slumped against the bare structure, neck tucked to his chest at an angle that suggested someone dropped him without much care. Sam clenched his teeth when his brother didn't so much as move.

"Dean!"

The fact that he wasn't tied up should have encouraged hope. It was probably orchestrated to, actually. But Sam felt the exact opposite. If Dean wasn't tied up, it was because the demon was coming back. Or already watching them. Sam turned his head against the pillar once more, straining to see the rest of the room behind him. But the pillar was the central support for the roof of the large, open room. It was wide, almost as wide as his shoulders, and just as deep. He couldn't see past it.

"Dean, come on, man. At least tell me you're alive."

Sam already knew he was from the steady rise and fall of his chest. But it had never been beneath him to use his brother's hard-coded protectiveness to get what he wanted.

"Dean!"

"'M alive," the man mumbled against his chest, hand twitching where it laid across his chest. The movement distracted the younger hunter for a second and he stared at that hand, knuckles busted, blood scabbed over but fingers still splattered with the evidence of what he'd done. His brother's other arm was motionless on the floor beside him, the white medical cast now covered in streaks of dirt and dotted red with Roger Miller's blood. A crack ran up the side from the force of each punch.

Sam shook himself, pushing his focus back on the problem at hand. Regret could be dealt with later. He glanced over his shoulder again, then back to his brother. "Dean, you need to get up. Right now."

"Kay," came the muttered reply, though his brother didn't move for another second. Sam's leg started jiggling anxiously, but Dean's arm twitched again and then he was struggling upright with a momentous groan. "'M up."

Glazed green eyes opened to slits, taking in the room around him slowly and with the rote movements of someone not fully awake.

"S'm?"

"Over here," he supplied, watching his brother closely. Sluggish movements, delayed reactions, slurred words; he looked drunk. Concussion then. Sam wasn't surprised, given that Dean's right cheek was a blossom of vibrant purples and blues, swollen twice in size and constricting at least some of his vision out of that eye. Sam remembered the way his brother's head had bounced off the linoleum tile of Roger Miller's kitchen.

He swallowed heavily. Well, at least Dean had woken up at all.

"Wha's goin' on?" Dean sat on the floor, upper body swaying as he stared up at his younger brother.

"We need to get out of here," Sam answered softly, not trying to baby his older brother but aware how unpleasant loud sounds were for a head wound. "You're not tied up, but I am. Think you can get me free?"

"Not a child," his brother muttered moodily, climbing to his feet in a single movement that made Sam grin. The way he swayed and stumbled back into the wall after coming to his feet was somewhat less encouraging. But the hunter knew his brother was tougher than nails and he had every faith in him.

"Whoa," Dean mumbled as he righted himself against the wall. His eyes narrowed as he stared at his brother, who seemed miles away given how much of a challenge standing had been. "Concussion?"

"Concussion," Sam confirmed with a twitch of his lips.

His older brother gave a firm nod, then immediately groaned in regret of the action. Muttering about head wounds, he made his way across the ten feet of distance separating him from Sam. The younger of the two tried not to rush him, knowing he was probably seeing three of everything, at a minimum. Not to mention the room would be swaying like a ship on rough seas.

Dean managed the voyage in a few long strides, and Sam was relieved to see a little more clarity in his eyes as he got to him. Calloused hands ran over the chains briefly, giving a quick tug before following them around to the back, where Sam assumed they were locked together.

"What happened?" Dean asked, words still slurred but sounding stronger.

"Azazel." Sam grit his teeth, closing his eyes against the memory of Max Miller's neck snapping and his lifeless body hitting the floor. "He must have knocked us out."

Dean grunted from behind the pillar, hands wrapping around the key-release padlock that hooked together two ends of chain. He scanned his still blurry vision around the room in search of a key, but came up empty. The yellow eyed bastard probably had it on him. Alright, plan B. He scanned the room a second time for anything he could use to pick a lock.

"Why don't you wear hairpins?"

Sam frowned, out of sight of his brother. His worry for Dean's mental condition ratcheted up another level. "What?"

"Hair's long enough for 'em," Dean continued mumbling as he moved away from the pillar and back into Sam's vision. He was patting himself down even as he crossed over to the half-standing dresser, and Sam realized he was looking for his lock picks. Dean mentally catalogued what he found - car keys in the wrong pocket (if that fucking bastard touched my car I'm gonna make him glad demons don't have a god damn afterlife), phone, and wallet. No lock picks, no weapons. "Would keep that shit out of your face at least."

"Gee, I'll keep it in mind for our next hunt," Sam answered back with an eye roll his brother didn't see.

Dean started pulling open drawers, running his hands along the surface top, and then dropping to the ground with a grunt as he searched for anything – nails, a thin piece of wire, a sturdy enough splinter, an old bobby pin left behind by some teenage girl losing her virginity to a pimply jock in an abandoned cabin in the woods. Anything. All the while, he muttered about his moose of a younger brother getting a haircut if he wasn't going to at least hide lock picks in that bird's nest he called hair. He then proceeded to ramble, more to himself, about how they could get him some real pretty ones. Sparkly. Dress him up right.

If looks could kill, Sam would have murdered his only chance at escape some time ago.

"Ha!" The hunter stumbled back to his feet with a noise of triumph immediately followed by a noise of pain. Dean swayed dangerously for a moment before he righted himself and headed back to his brother like he was right as rain. He was holding an old hair clip in his hand, a small bejeweled butterfly at the end suggesting it was less likely lost by some blushing virgin and more likely a pre-teen or single digit who'd come with her big sis or bro to the creepy cabin in the woods where the big kids hung out.

Dean disappeared back behind the pillar again, and Sam heard the telltale clicks and scrapes of his brother picking a lock. The larger man fidgeted in the chains, trying and failing to exercise patience. Dan knew what he was doing, and Sam would be free in just another couple seconds.

"Oh shit."

Sam tensed at the shaky whisper that came from his brother, all sounds from behind him ceasing. He tried to turn in the chains, to see past the pillar. "What? Did you drop it?"

He didn't know what it was; if it was his hunter's instinct suddenly screaming at him; if it was how well he knew his brother and the way Dean's breath shuddered as soon as the room had silenced; or maybe it was the way his brother had gone absolutely still. Whatever it was, Sam knew before his brother said it that they weren't alone in the cabin anymore.

"He's here."

"Well, look who's up and at 'em!"

Dean suddenly yelped, but before Sam could ask what happened, he felt an intense heat around his middle. He let out a cry of his own as the chains flashed burning red for a moment, sizzling against his flesh. The intense, burning heat vanished as quickly as it had come, but it accomplished Azazel's goal. Dean stumbled into Sam's field of vision, away from the padlock and his restrained brother.

Despite the fierce sting across his arms and chest, the sight of his older brother, mostly unharmed, added a modicum of relief to Sam's ratcheted tension. Dean stumbled another couple feet back, eyes darting around for a weapon.

"I should have known better than to underestimate that Winchester gumshoe."

Sam tried to turn against the pillar once again, straining to see the owner of the disembodied voice. Dean's hardened, slightly panicked gaze over his right shoulder told Sam the demon was probably just past the pillar, barely out of his view. There was something about not being able to see the bastard that made his helpless situation all the worse.

"Dean," he cautioned, voice strained. His brother was in serious danger here, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help. The fact Azazel had left Dean untied once more poked at his attention and he tried to ignore all the very dark reasons his brain supplied for why the demon would do that.

His older brother had only a moment to shake his head minutely in Sam's direction before he was blasted back, flying across the length of the cabin to crash into the wall he had woken up against.

"Dean!"

The hunter managed to protect his head from the impact, forcing his chin to his chest to avoid adding another bump to the skull. His neck protested fiercely, but at this point he would take whiplash over a secondary concussion. Dean's vision still darkened momentarily and he started to slump forward, sliding off the wall, before an invisible pressure caught him and splayed him against the surface.

Azazel strolled across the room, bending down a few feet away from Sam to pick up the hair pin Dean had dropped in the sudden attack. He whistled merrily as he twirled the device in his hand. Both brothers watched, eyes wide, as the little pin lit up as red as the chains had, metal softening and then liquefying in the demon's grip. The molten material slipped through his fingers and splattered on the ground, butterfly jewel bouncing off the wood seconds later.

"That would have been inconvenient," the demon mentioned casually as he strolled across the room towards the pinned hunter. He paused before he reached him, glancing over his shoulder at the equally straining younger brother. Sam snarled at the sudden attention. Pale yellow eyes faded out to normal human pupils and darted down to the chains wrapped around his captive. "Sorry 'bout those, sport. Couldn't risk you biting the hand that feeds ya, and all."

Sam frowned at his words, but the glare in his eyes never lessoned as Azazel turned back to his brother. Dean tried to lean away from the demon, but his pinned position didn't allow for much movement, and all he managed was turning his head ever so slightly away from the yellow eyed bastard. Azazel reached out and Sam's heart leapt at all the ways the monster could hurt Dean.

"Why?" The words were out of his mouth before he'd registered them. All he had thought was he had to keep Azazel's attention on him. If he was talking to Sam, he wasn't hurting Dean. Hand still splayed towards his brother, the demon paused, glancing over his shoulder with a questioning brow. Sam swallowed thickly, his brother catching his eye and shaking his head. He ignored him. "Why did you kill Max? Wasn't he one of your…your kids?"

Azazel laughed, turning back to Dean. Sam's heart pounded, mouth opening to try again, but all the demon did was start rooting through his brother's pockets. "That sniveling brat?"

Dean squirmed under those hands, body twitching in result against the power pinning him to the wall. The demon ignored him for the most part, movements halting as his hand slipped into the human's front jean pocket. Dean stilled, body freezing up as the bastard grinned up at him with a malicious smile that absolutely did not make every muscle in his body shake and his stomach twist unpleasantly. He still had all those memories from Hell, he reminded himself. There was nothing this bastard could do to him that hadn't already been inflicted a dozen times over.

Azazel smirked as he slowly pulled out the hunter's phone, purposefully dragging out the movement before he spun back around to his real interest in all of this. Dean sagged against the wall and Sam glared fiercely at the demon who flipped open the device and started keying through the various menus.

"Sure, he was one of mine," Azazel continued, speaking directly to Sam though his gaze remained on the phone as he started scrolling through contacts. "But that whining mess of a human never stood a chance. I had hoped abusive parents would bring out some anger in the boy – real sociopathic tendencies, you know?"

Sam clenched his jaw as the demon prattled on about Max's life like it was an experiment gone wrong. Max had turned into a murderer, but Sam couldn't help but sympathize with what had driven the kid there. To listen to the yellow eyed monster so callously disregard the hardships he'd put Max through…

How many more lives had that creature ruined?

"He couldn't even kill those abusive bastards without a push. Multiple pushes!" Azazel threw his arms out, as if he was the victim here. "I spent more time trying to train up that sniveling brat... Ah, well. He had his use in the end, mmh? Got you going, Sammy."

The demon waggled a finger in his direction, the same glee in his eye as had been there in the muddy church parking lot. But Sam wasn't paying attention to the demon. He turned wide eyes to his brother, breath slowing with realization. Azazel was the reason Max had moved early. Why Sam had had his vision sooner in the timeline than was right, why Cassie had called while they were already on the road. Azazel was their butterfly.

Sam could tell by the panic in his brother's gaze that that was absolutely not good news for them.

"Why?" Sam asked again, voice doubled in anger and desperation. He hated the latter, the plea that was included in the rage. But he wanted to understand, to comprehend what could possibly be worth running their lives twice over. Even if he already knew the answer, and still couldn't understand.

"Because I need that anger," Azazel responded easily, oblivious to the silent exchange between brothers. He was downright elated, like the answer was obvious but no less exciting. He pushed away from Dean, crossing the distance between the two. The phone was still in his hand, but Sam had captured his attention away from it for now. "That's the problem with you humans. You're like kicked dogs; always crawling back to daddy for approval. Too many of you spend years sniveling, begging for treats, scrambling to please the guy beating the crap out of you."

The demon laughed, inches away from the hunter's face. Sam had never wanted to punch someone so much in his life.

"I need someone who won't take it. Someone who's got the anger, the drive, the balls, to stand above all that. Bite that hand that feeds you. Rip it right off." The demon turned away from the boy again, though didn't leave his side as he brought the phone back up. "Someone like you, Sammy."

"What?"

"Sure, the kid had spunk enough to ice his family, but it took him so damn long to do it!" Azazel kept on as if he hadn't heard Sam's breathless question. "I'm looking for someone whose anger always trumps the family card. And that's you, Sammy-boy."

He tapped the phone against the hunter's chest with a wink.

"Walked away from your father – your brother – more than once. Not afraid to take what you want, do what needs to be done. Blood ties be damned." Azazel sucked in and released a breath of air like a father would in the middle of a speech about his oldest son's recent achievements. The grin on his face was so sickeningly proud that Sam had to turn away from it.

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" The demon tilted his head, brow raised. "Demon blood don't add to you, Sammy. It only brings out more of what's already in there."

"Don't listen to him, Sam." The barked command drew both hunter and demon's attention back to the wall, where Dean remained pinned. His anger was focused solely on the demon, but his fierce gaze flickered to Sam, a promise in his eyes that the younger Winchester hardly understood, but instantly believed.

Azazel clucked his tongue in a moment of silence, then flipped the phone shut and strode across the room towards the older hunter. Dean pulled back as the murderer drew closer, pressing himself more into the wall than the demon already had him.

The grey blue eyes of his human form disappeared, replaced in a blink with the pale yellow irises that had been the last thing Mary Winchester ever saw. Dean clenched his teeth, staring at the demon that he swore, no matter what it cost this timeline, he would kill again.

A smile broke out across Azazel's face, and he raised the phone in his hand, waving it tauntingly. "You'll see soon enough."

He flipped the device open, standing back from the pinned hunter. With a single button press, he raised the phone to his ear, glancing over his shoulder at Sam and waggling his eyebrows in the younger Winchester's direction.

-o-o-o-

John spread the map across the hood of his truck, staring down at the continental United States and the maze of back roads and highways he'd endlessly traversed for twenty-two years in search of his prey. He slammed his fist down on the center of the map and the metal underneath vibrated with the hit. Tilting his head back, the former marine took in a deep, calming breath and forced himself to release the tension in his shoulders that crawled up his neck like a cancer.

He'd lost Yellow Eyes' trail. The last omens after he'd left his sons had been four states over in Ohio. But by the time he'd arrived, it was nothing but a regular demon, mulling about the town. John made swift work of it, but not before the hell spawn had spat that he knew all about his son. All about Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood.

'You don't even know what's coming, do you?'

The thing had gone to hell laughing at him. John took in another breath and added a ten count. It should have gone screaming.

The hunter straightened his head slowly, rapping his knuckles against the map instead of punching it like his bunched up muscles wanted so badly to do. Part of him had thought, with the Colt tucked against his side as a reassuring weight, that his hunt was almost over. But now, it was like starting all over. The demon was making himself scarce. It had only been a couple of days, but in the last six months this thing hadn't stopped for even twenty-four hours, let along almost a week.

John gritted his teeth, hand resting on the hilt of the Colt, tucked into the waistline of his jeans. It was like the bastard knew he had it, and was purposefully hiding from him.

A ringtone cut through bitter thoughts, and John pulled his phone from his coat pocket with a sigh. Dean's name flashed on the small screen as he stared down at the device. He considered ignoring it, even turning the thing off. He knew his eldest would have nothing but angered words for him, and he didn't need to hear them right now or waste time getting in another fight.

But Sammy was traveling with Dean, and if something had happened… John huffed a breath, counted to ten, and raised the phone to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"John? Is that you?"

The coy, taunting voice that rang slightly tinny through the small speaker was not his oldest son, and John straightened, fingers digging into the plastic edges of the device.

"Who is this?"

"Oh, I think you know. Still, I'll give you three guesses."  The smug grin coming down the line was sickening to the hunter and he grit his teeth. He sure as Hell did know. Only question left was what that yellow eyed bastard was doing with his son's phone. "Though, each guess you get wrong, Dean-O here's gonna pay for."

"You touch my son and I'll kill you."

The demon laughed loudly, a false sound that turned John's stomach. "John, John, John. You were gonna do that anyway. Or do you think I don't know about that special gun you have?"

The hunter swallowed, hand curling around the hilt of the Colt protectively. His mind raced. Had the boys told the demon about it? Were they coerced into talking, or had the bastard already known about the gun?

"Word travels fast about things like that,"  the demon drawled, answering the hunter's unvoiced question. "Now! I'm sure you can imagine what comes next, Johnny-Boy. I want the gun; I have your children. Let's…make a trade, hm?"

"I want to talk to Dean."

"Oh, I don't think Dean's earned speaking privileges. Hasn't been the model prisoner, you know. Tried to help his brother escape, keeps talking back."  John's fist tightened on the hood of the car, map crinkling beneath his aching grip. "I can still give you proof of life, though."

John's breath left him like a punch to the gut as his eldest son's voice came through the line in a harsh, cut off grunt. The old marine could tell his son was holding back a hell of a lot more than some pained groan, and his heart hurt to think what that bastard could be doing to him.

"I don't think that was loud enough, Dean-O. Your dad wants to know you're alive. Let's try again."

"No, wait-"

There was a distant crack down the line and this time Dean screamed. John had to lower the phone away from his ear. He raised his fist to his forehead, knocking against his own skull several times as he fought with every fiber of his being to stay in control of the mounting rage and panic.

"Hear that, John?"

The hunter counted to ten and let out a breath, before he opened deadly calm eyes and raised the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, I heard."

"Good. So, Dean's alive and well. Mostly. And Sam's obviously fine; no need to hurt my favorite boy just yet."

John clenched his teeth around his tongue, the sharp pain the only thing keeping him from promising that son of a bitch that it didn't matter where he went or who he used as a shield. He was going to die. Instead, he bided his time with his silence, despite every second of it that killed him.

"I want the Colt,"  the demon soon enough continued once he realized he had the hunter's attention. He rattled off an address in northern Michigan, about four hours away from John's current position.

The hunter stared at the map still spread across the hood of the truck, corners curling in the gentle breeze. He tapped the phone with a single finger, plans rolling through his head.

"Did you hear me, John?"  Dean made a pained noise in the background.

"Okay! I heard you. I'll bring you the colt." The hunter licked his lips, running a hand through his hair. "It's gonna take me about a day's drive to get there."

On the other end, the demon just hummed and his son cried out again. He could hear Sam yelling in the background. John's hand shook around the phone, but he willed his voice to remain steady and silently apologized to Dean for the bluff he would bear the brunt of.

"I'm halfway across the country, and I can't just carry a gun on a plane!" The thing about a bluff was it was only good if you played it all the way through, no matter the cost.

"That's okay."  The demon sounded genuine, which immediately set off warning bells in the hunter's head. Dean stopped making that noise, though. His barely audible panting in the background at least confirmed he was still alive. "Take all the time you need. I'll just be here with Dean. I'm sure we'll find ways to pass the time."

The line clicked dead and John slammed the phone as hard as he could into the hood of the truck, denting one and shattering the screen of the other.

-o-o-o-

Sam clenched his teeth and kept his mouth shut, though just barely, as he searched the room desperately again and again for something – anything – he could use to get the demon away from his brother. If he could wound Azazel enough, distract him enough to get Dean back up, maybe his brother could get away. Unfortunately, the demon had all but eliminated a repeat of their last escape attempt and Sam had little hope of them getting out together.

He would happily give his freedom if it meant that bastard didn't lay another hand on his brother.

The demon stepped away from Dean as he shut the phone, letting the hunter slide down the wall and crumple to the floor in a heap. Sam bit his tongue, straining against the chains as his brother groaned and didn't try to get up. His good arm was awkwardly wrapped across his chest to hold onto his left. The cast lay in pieces several feet away, and his previously injured arm now sported two breaks. The first fracture, having spent the last week healing as much as it could from the hunter's prior demonic encounter, had given easily beneath Azazel's tight grip. The second, clearly visible in the unnatural angle of Dean's wrist, had been delivered when the re-break was not been enough to make the hunter scream.

Dean didn't bother getting off the floor. Instead, he rolled onto his back, clutching the ruined limb as hard as he was clenching his teeth and focused on breathing through the pain. He'd had far worse.

"Well, that was fun." Azazel set the phone down on the dresser. He glanced over at Sam with a winning smile, and the hunter jerked in his chains.

"I'm going to kill you!"

"That'd be a neat trick." The demon turned his full attention on the young psychic, leaning back against the wobbly furniture and crossing his arms. A mock idea lit his face with all the sincerity of a lying rat, and he leaned forward far enough to reach behind him and pull a gun from his back. It was Dean's, the ivory laid grip a dead giveaway. He held it out in his open palm. "Here ya go. Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy."

Sam clenched his teeth, raising his chin against the demon's taunt. He couldn't help his eyes darting down to the weapon and back to steel blue irises.

Azazel just shrugged when he didn't take the bait. "Wouldn't have done you much good anyway, o' course. This here ain't a special gun. Not like the one your daddy's bringing me."

"Still would have put a smile on my face."

The demon turned slowly to Dean, who had managed to right himself up against the wall. He was still holding his broken arm – no point in pretending it wasn't what it was. But he looked up at Azazel with a glare and a grin that was practically trade-marked Dean Winchester.

"Bullet straight through one of those ugly ass eyes?" Dean let out a laugh, masterfully hiding the wince that followed as he jostled his limb. He kept that cocky grin locked on the demon looming above him. "Woulda done me some good."

"Is that so?" Azazel wrapped his hand around the grip of the gun, leveling it at the downed hunter. Dean stared straight down the barrel, aimed perfectly between his eyes.

"Dean." Sam pulled against his chains again, gnashing his front teeth together. He desperately switched between the yellow eyed bastard and his brother, praying to God he wasn't about to watch his brother take a headshot.

Would telekinesis work on a speeding bullet?

Sam tried to take a deep breath. The rational part of his brain fought for control over the panicking side. Dean had said they were both needed for the apocalypse. Sam by Hell, Dean with Heaven. That meant that the angels, even if they were dicks (Dean's words, not his), wouldn't let his brother die.

They couldn't. Right?

Only Dean had definitely skimmed over some things in the car on the way to Max's house. He hadn't been wrong – Dean, that is – about the trip being too short to cover it all. And it was more than just the twelve hours he had to explain it. It was the time Sam needed to assimilate it.

The younger hunter hadn't asked much more after the bare bones of the apocalypse were laid out before him. He'd had his questions about it, absolutely. But honestly? He needed half that ride just to process what he'd been told. Sam knew there were parts he didn't understand. Hell, he didn't understand most of it. He'd just wrongly assumed he'd have time to talk to his brother about everything he didn't know.

Like the fact that they both would obviously survive long enough to start the end of the world and then take down Lucifer. Dean had been clear on that part. They were both there to take down the devil they'd set free. So that meant they would be fine up until that point. They had to be. Neither Heaven nor Hell could afford to kill them if they were the only ones who could get that show on the road.

That was why Dean knew he could piss the demon off as much as he wanted, and he wouldn't take that shot. Right?

Azazel clucked his tongue and released the hammer of the gun. He grinned down at the older Winchester, who didn't so much as blink as the weapon was lowered away from him. Sam got out a single breath of relief before his big brother opened that damn mouth of his again.

"What? You don't have the balls if I'm not pinned the ceiling?" Dean let out a little laugh that was dark and dangerous. "Or is it cuz I'm not a woman?"

Oh, hell, who was he kidding? Dean would run his mouth whether or not he had immunity. Dean would run his mouth right past immunity, do not pass Go, do not collect your free pass of not dying.

"Dean!"

Sam's warning went unheard as Azazel set the gun back on the dresser and Dean suddenly straightened against the wall, back rigid and head snapping upright. It was clear within seconds that he couldn't breathe, as his mouth flapped like a fish trying to suck in water where there was only air. Sam strained against the chains holding him. Dean's face started to redden, but it wasn't until his brother started sliding up the wall and towards the ceiling that true fear took hold.

Sam tried to tell himself again that this wasn't where his brother died, at least according to Dean and his 'first time around' crap. Of course, that voice was a tiny thing in comparison to the one screaming he was going to watch his brother die here and now if they kept making changes to the timeline.

Dean's head hit the ceiling, neck bending awkwardly as his body continued moving upward, transitioning onto the roof of the cabin. Sam thrashed against his restraints, his brother starting to panic. His face was an alarming shade of red, going purple and puffing up with the need for oxygen.

"Stop!" Sam finally yelled. "You can't kill him. You need him!"

The cabin silenced as Azazel halted, Dean stilling on the roof. The demon turned slowly to look at the younger hunter, a calculating and dangerous look in his eye. It was Dean's turn to utter a warning, though his was garbled by the fact he couldn't actually access any of the depleting air in his lungs.

"You need us both," Sam continued on, heedless of his brother's slightly panicked gaze in his direction. "John won't deal if you kill him. You won't get the Colt unless we're both still breathing, and you know it."

Yellow Eyes didn't respond, just continued to stare at the boy. Sam tilted his chin up, pushing back all those thoughts of alternate timelines and destinies. He focused all of his confidence into feeding the bluff, which really wasn't that much of a bluff after all.

"Without us as leverage, he'll just kill you instead." Sam narrowed his eyes at the demon, refusing to let so much as a tremor of adrenaline affect his voice or his body. "You need him."

Dean hit the floor, unable to hold back a sharp cry as he broke a ten foot fall with a twice-over broken limb. But he was breathing – hacking, really, after spending so long without oxygen – and that was all Sam cared about for now.

"Fair point, Sammy-boy." Azazel turned his full attention on his favorite kid, who sagged against the pillar in relief. The demon ignored the heaving man behind him. He'd deal with him in good time. "I can't blow the grand finale before the guest of honor shows."

Dean gave a grunt and a strangled, "oh come on" as he was flung back up, off the floor and pinned to the wall once more. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'one-trick pony' but if Azazel heard it, he didn't bother responding. Instead, the demon moved right into the hunter's space, stopping only once his face was scant inches from the hunter's own.

"Dude, personal space," Dean mumbled, and winced as a spike of something angry flashed through his chest.

Azazel's gaze flickered yellow.

"But I bet," he continued on as if their conversation hadn't paused so he could toss the hunter around some more. He raised his arm and Dean's abused arm scraped up the wall in tandem, the hunter wincing with every jostle. "Big brother can take one hell of a beating and keep right on kicking. Can't you, boy?"

Dean set his jaw. He pulled his head off the wall as much as he could, fighting the demon's overpowering strength with sheer stubborn will. The man from the future locked eyes with the demon that had nothing on him when it came to surviving torture.

"Gimme your best shot."

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Chapter 29

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam's voice was hoarse and his throat raw by the time Azazel stepped away from his brother. He released Dean from the wall, and the hunter didn't bother trying to hold himself up. He crumpled to the ground with a soft sound that hurt Sam deep in his chest. But he pushed that to the side. Dean was still breathing. He could work with that.

Yellow Eyes had ignored every plea, scream, and demand sent his way while he gave his brother the beat down of his life. An hour in he switched from fists to what must have been psychic knives or claws of some sort, since the older Winchester's skin split with every rake of Azazel's fingers. Dean took it all with impressive reservation. Sam had never seen anything like it in all his years of hunting monsters and killing things, and he certainly had never seen it in his brother.

Dean was like steel; cold and clinical about the torture being inflicted on him like he was outside of it all. It obviously hurt, something the older hunter didn't waste energy hiding. He screamed when he needed to and didn't hide behind some macho bravado act like Sam expected. It only took about fifteen minutes for the young Winchester to realize that his brother – the Dean from the future – had been through this before. Perhaps not exactly this, as Dean definitely would have mentioned them being kidnapped by the yellow eyed psycho, but torture certainly.

What might have been comforting in any other sense – the idea that Dean could handle this – hand handled this before – only made Sam more desperate to get the demon away from him. He never wanted to hear those pained noises coming from his big brother again. But for all Sam's begging and threatening, Azazel refused to turn his attention away from the older Winchester. He took a break at one point to give Sam a wink and the reassurance that he'd never hurt his prize show pony. Sam had only screamed louder.

"Ha. H-He definitely has the m-mane for it," Dean chuckled, half delirious from the last round of headshots Azazel delivered without reserve.

"Dean. Shut up."

Sam didn't know how long they'd been in that cabin by the time Azazel finally backed off. He didn't know how much longer they had to wait for their Dad to arrive. If he had to guess, he'd say a couple of hours had passed, though it felt like days at that point.

"Entertaining as this has been, boys," Azazel began conversationally, a step back from the crumpled, bleeding hunter. "I need to step out for a moment. Gotta prep for the main event!"

He picked up Dean's jacket, which he'd cut off not long after the invisible claws came out, and wiped his blood splattered face with it. The hunter made a gargled sound at the action, glaring at the man with all that he was worth. That was his father's jacket, damn it. Not that there was much left of it now.

Yellow Eyes just smiled, dropped the battered material next to the hunter, and strolled past Sam and out of his range of vision. The sound of an old door creaking open and shutting hard rattled through the single room, and Sam finally let out a shaky breath.

"Is he gone?" he asked, just to be sure since he couldn't see the second half of the room. Dean nodded, though Sam took a moment to consider how good his brother's vision could even be, given one eye was swelled completely shut and the other kept blinking to keep out blood from a cut to his brow.

He trusted him, though, so he took his word. "Can you move?"

Dean made a sort of half-assed grunt that Sam easily translated into 'if I have to.' Not the answer he'd been hoping for, but the one he'd been expecting. He knew at least one of Dean's legs was broken. Straight through the femur, one of the most painful bones to break, and Azazel had snapped it like a toothpick. Dean took it like a champ, just groaning about recovery time, thigh-high casts, and damn it, not again.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked softly, unable to block the sound of his brother's leg cracking in two playing on a loop through his brain.

"I'll live," Dean mumbled, spitting out a mouthful of blood. He sent his brother a half grin, which lost most of its intended effect given his teeth were stained as red as the rest of him. "Had way worse than this, Sammy."

"Yeah," the younger man answered weakly. He'd figured that much out on his own, but was dreading the story behind it. "Any ideas on getting out of here?"

With Dean's leg busted and the rest of him on the sure path of eventual exsanguination, Sam knew the man wasn't walking out, even if he could convince his big brother to leave him behind.

"Dad'll think of something."

Shit . Sam stared at the man without bothering to hide the worry or the fear. Dean always had an idea, or the confidence of an idea yet to form but surely coming. It was something Sam had always admired about his brother; the stubborn mule didn't give up, no matter the odds. Admitting now that their best bet was waiting until John showed up meant the hunter knew he was benched.

"Yeah, okay." Sam didn't try getting any more out of his brother, whose wet breaths eventually evened out as he rested against the wall. He let Dean take the much needed, well-deserved respite. The younger Winchester watched his brother's bloodied chest rise and fall for several comforting moments that he desperately needed before he put himself to work.

Sam's gaze turned to the gun, still sitting atop the dresser beside Dean's phone. The restrained hunter didn't know how much time they had before the demon returned, but he wasn't going to waste it by waiting.

-o-o-o-

The dilapidated and somewhat listing shed stood – sort of – a good fifty yards away from the old hunting cabin. It had once been used for storing a winter's worth of firewood and drying meats for the family that lived in the house. It got them through the desolate, freezing, deadly winters of northern Michigan. Of course, the last time a family had lived in that pathetic excuse for a home, it had been frontier land. Nowadays the shed had a gaping hole in the roof with rot eating away at what was left, a door that hung off its hinges and had to be roped closed if anyone bothered to close it at all, and the whole thing would, in all likelihood, collapse atop itself within a year.

However, it did still work as a makeshift holding cell for three humans dumb enough to spend a chilly May night camping out in an abandoned cabin in the woods.

Azazel unhooked the rope holding the shed door closed, allowing the monstrosity to swing open with a distressing groan of rusting metal and rotting wood. He stepped into the dark space, glancing down as his foot landed on a squishy, uneven surface that crunched beneath his boot.

The yellow eyed demon gazed down in distaste at the lifeless teenage male underneath his foot. The boy had attempted – valiantly, he supposed – to defend his girlfriend and the young child, a sister perhaps, that had been with them when the demon whisked into the cabin.

They'd been in sleeping bags, with a camping stove between them and marshmallows of all things roasting over the open flame. Azazel had allowed himself a moment to gag at the hallmark scene before snapping the boy's neck.

A whimper brought him away from the warm and fuzzy memory. He grinned at the frightened thing huddled in the corner of the shed. Tears streaked down her pretty little face and she turned away with a flinch as the demon transferred his weight to the foot pressed atop the dead boy's body. His ribs gave with a satisfying crunch, and Azazel stepped off the broken meatsuit and swept towards the girl.

She struck out, screaming, as he grabbed at her and hauled her off the dirty floor. The good thing about a dilapidated shed fifty yards from the house was the fact that its current occupants were unlikely to hear the fuss. Not that they could do anything about it, even if they did hear her mewling. But hunters were such pathetically noble things. He wouldn't put it past the Winchesters to figure out a daring escape just so they could save some crying bitch.

"What did you do with my sister?" The thing sobbed and squealed in his arms, snot and salt water slobbering up her face. She clutched a small hair pin in her hand, a bejeweled butterfly attached at the end. Azazel tilted his head at the trinket, then stretched his face into a grin.

"I had to make a call." He tightened his grip around the teen's bicep and hauled her towards the shed door. "Unfortunately for you, I have to make another."

-o-o-o-

John Winchester wrung the steering wheel beneath a white knuckled grip as he crossed the Michigan border. Another hour more. He closed his eyes briefly, thoughts focused on his sons surviving long enough for him to get there. They just had to survive another hour.

He glanced at the old gun sitting on the passenger seat, long barrel shaking with the vibrations of the engine and the bumps of the road as he flew down the I-75. The hunter wrung the steering wheel again as he turned his eyes back to the road. A light rain started, streaking drops across his windshield at eighty miles per hour.

Just another hour and he'd be there.

Hang on, boys. I'm coming.

-o-o-o-

The blood bubbled in its chalice a final time before going silent and still. Azazel set the cup down beside the unmoving body he'd drained for its contents. His daughter still hadn't checked in, despite her last call informing him she was closing in on the Winchesters. That was some time ago and he had no doubt she was dead, probably by way of that fancy gun John Winchester would soon deliver to him.

The Baku they hired to find that particular hunter hadn't been heard from for some time now, either. Crowley hardly seemed to care, but Azazel found curiosity in the beast's disappearance. He did nott often bother with the lesser things that roamed the earth, but even he knew the Baku were not killable, at least not by man. Not even by a man armed with the Colt.

Given how persuasive a salesmen the King of the Crossroads could be, when properly incentivized that is, Azazel found it unlikely the dream beast would wander off, job incomplete and sans whatever promised reward.

Which meant that peculiar things were happening. Too many, he believed, to be of coincidence. His best daughter was dead, the eldest Winchester was being fed information on Hell's movements faster than Hell was able to collect information on his, their carefully laid and almost fool-proof plan to spring Lucifer from his cage continued to derail at the simplest of steps, the Colt surfaced with perfect timing for both themselves and their enemies, and a dream beast the Winchesters had no way of killing seemed to be quite killed.

Azazel stared at the blood, silent within its chalice now that Lilith was no longer on the other end of the call. What was even more peculiar was the recent development she relayed to him. It had taken time for their scattered demons to regroup and report in - more time of course to torture the real story out of them and confirm its legitimacy - but apparently that pesky Pearly White Gate was no longer shut. It had creaked open, just for a moment, earlier this week.

Of all weeks, really, this week was...well, it was more than peculiar, that was for certain. Unfortunate, really. It was going to be problematic if Heaven joined this fight early. It did not, however, explain how they seemed to have already had a hand in it for six months.

The Prince of Hell rubbed his hand along his chin in thought, but pulled away when his fingers ran across something cold and wet. He stared at the digits in the moonlight; Dean Winchester's blood was smeared across the tip of one. He must have missed some when he'd used the kid's jacket as a wipe down. Pale yellow eyes gazed past his fingers, focusing on the blood sitting in the silver cup next to the corpse it once belonged to.

A silly little thought occurred to him. One might even call it peculiar.

"Tasted like righteousness, huh?" He wiggled his fingers in the moonlight. With possibility niggling at his brain, Azazel raised his hand to his lips and took a taste of the Righteous Man's blood.

-o-o-o-

"Dean. Wake up."

The voice was far away, but still loud enough to disturb his peaceful lull of oblivion. First, he tried to ignore it. But the voice was insistent, and growing worse. What had started soft was becoming demanding, then indignant. So the second thing Dean did was try to turn away from the sound, an action that instantly provided the opposite effect he was hoping for.

Pain flared through… shit, everything! Green eyes snapped open – well, one snapped open and the other painfully reminded him that his face was currently hamburger meat. He hissed as multiple fractures flared up throughout his body, which tried to react to the pain in his face by raising his arms to it. The pain in his arms made him jerk forward, and he really quickly came to the conclusion that there wasn't a single part of him that didn't hurt.

Well, he thought as he groaned and leaned back against whatever surface had been previously supporting him. His toes didn't really hurt. His head definitely did, given the downright giddiness that came with realizing his toes were fine.

"Dean."

The hunter suppressed another pained sound and lifted his head – slowly – to search for his brother's voice. It took a moment, head still swimming and vision absolutely fucked between the swelling, the blood, and the concussion. Concussions. Pretty sure he'd compounded them by now. Eventually he settled his single eye on his brother, chained in the center of the room a good ten feet away.

"Hey, Sammy." He had the brief thought that he should say something cooler than that. Maybe poke at the fact his brother was strapped up like a dungeon bondage porno gone terribly wrong, nose dribbling blood like he'd been sucker punched by a pussy who couldn't even hit hard enough to bruise. But chuckling hurt, as he was now learning, and something vaguely resembling self-preservation whispered in his head that mouthing off meant more pain.

"You're taking damsel in distress to all knew levels." Right, like he had ever listened to that voice when it did decide to pipe up.

Sam rolled his eyes, but there was relief in the twitch of his lips. His eyes were serious, though, and Dean tried to focus for their sake. His kid brother was holding himself really stiff, one hand fisted at his side, the other extended as far as it could go with the chains pinching at his red, irritated elbow. The kid's hand was splayed out and trembling.

Dean frowned at it. Something clawed at his foggy brain but failed to break through.

"I need you to focus," Sammy was saying, and it took a moment and a heavy blink for Dean to realize he was talking to him. "Do you remember where the padlock is on the chains?"

The man from the future frowned further, stopping only when pain pushed through his head at the pull of those muscles. Instead, he stared at his brother as his thoughts swayed like his vision.

"Padlock?"

"Yeah." Sammy sounded a little desperate, like he did when they were on a time limit. "Can you describe where it is? Exactly."

Dean frowned again, despite the pain that came with it. He wasn't really following, but sure, he could do that. He remembered making his way across the swirling room after the first concussion – definitely sure he had a second one now – and following his brother's restraints around to the back.

"Dead center, about….an inch above your bellybutton?"

Sam's eyes slid away from his brother, focusing on something else. His hand twitched and that thing trying to claw at Dean's memory doubled its efforts. There was a familiar click and the sound of metal pressing against metal. Dean's curiosity peaked and he turned his head to follow the sound. He couldn't spot what made the noise, though. Sam frowned, head tilting slightly. He move his hand again, and the sound came once more, but heavier this time. Thicker metal, Dean's ailing mind supplied.

The kid suddenly grinned. "Found it."

Dean was about to ask what he'd found when the sound of a gun going off ripped through the room. The older Winchester raised his arms on instinct, head turning to the side as he closed his eyes. The movement ended up half aborted as pain flared through both limbs and he gasped, pressing himself back against the wall as his vision whited out for a minute.

Fuck the gunshot, the only thing a bullet could do to him now was end the goddamn pain.

Hands were grabbing at him before his vision cleared, and he stupidly tried to fight them off, resulting in more agony. He was doubled over trying to breath and repeating a mantra of 'don't move your arms, dumbass' by the time he realized it was Sam's hands gripping his shoulders – some of the only undamaged parts of his torso currently – and his voice urging him to get up.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbled as he managed to clamp down on the waves of agony going through him and instead forced his eyes open.

"We gotta go," Sam spoke urgently right next to him, but his voice sounded apologetic. Dean's concussed brain couldn't quite grasp why, but the answer came to him a second later when his brother hauled his broken body up.

"Oh, fuck!" he cried again, gritting his teeth. Forget waves of agony, this was pure hell.

You've been through worse. Suck it up, Winchester . The voice in his head was cold and harsh, but it also spoke the truth and Dean knew it, even if he didn't know much else in that moment. So he took a heaving breath and did as he was told. Sam slung Dean's unbroken arm around his samsquatch shoulders, pulling on his bruised torso and broken ribs, but he sucked air through his teeth and fought through the pain.

Things weren't making much sense to him right then, but he knew Azazel was coming back. Sure, it took him a few moments longer than it should have to remember who the hell Azazel was, but bite him. Two concussions, people!

"Now, that was a neat trick."

Both hunters froze, half because Sam had been all of their driving motion, and half because a little voice in Dean's head supplied the identity of the owner of that voice and the rest of him supplied the swear words and sudden muscle rigidity.

Sam raised the gun in his hand – when the hell had the kid gotten his gun? – and fired repeatedly into the demon. Azazel didn't bat an eye or bother dodging. His shirt and flannel ripped with every bullet, but there was no blood and he barely staggered a step. Soon enough, Dean's chamber was empty and Sam lowered the gun, the fierceness in his eyes hiding the panic beyond.

"Ouch." Azazel tilted his head and the gun flew from Sam's hand, skidding across the room and into the far wall. Dean went next, with Sam crying out as his brother was ripped from his grip and pinned back to his favorite spot in the whole cabin.

Yellow Eyes flicked his wrist even as Sam spun to face him. The kid was dragged back to the pillar and pinned to the wood. The chains and busted padlock, bullet still lodged in the shattered metal, remained limp on the floor. Azazel kept both boys restrained with his stupid demon powers alone, strolling into the room and up to the dresser.

He set a large mason jar of dark liquid on the surface and Sam stopped struggling, breath stolen from his body at the sight of another container of demon blood.

-o-o-o-

"What is that."

Azazel had given them a moment to gather their wits, standing beside the dresser with neither words nor expectations. Yet, at least. Dean used his minute to try and remember how to breathe without throwing up. Sam needed every second of the allotted time to rip his gaze from that sickeningly red liquid.

Now Yellow Eyes focused his attention on the young man in the center of the room. The hunter looked for all the world like he wanted to push himself straight through that pillar and disappear entirely. Azazel wouldn't be surprised if Sam stayed pressed to that surface, demonic power holding him there or not.

"Come on, Sammy," he admonished lightly, a single brow raised at the boy. He placed a light hand atop the jar. "You already know the answer."

He delighted in watching the hunter's Adam's apple bob up and down.

"No." Sam lifted his chin, lower jaw trembling but expression resolute despite the obvious fear and, Azazel suspected, slight withdrawal.

"You sure, kiddo?" The demon looked him up and down, and Sam clenched his jaw until it ached. Azazel made a face, bobbing his head back and forth in thought. "That last bout with the gun and the chains? I'm betting that about drained the tank. Am I right?"

Sam held firm, refusing to blink or even think about how keeping that pistol afloat long enough to find the padlock and fire had almost made him black out.

"You know how I know?" The demon grinned, nodding slightly as if encouraging Sam to play along. When he didn't, the demon went on anyway, tapping the side of his nose. "You're bleeding again, sport. That stopped for a while, didn't it?"

He kept right on grinning and nodding, an ecstatic look in his eye. He tapped his fingers along the lid of the mason jar. "See, with a dose like this, you're getting strong enough to survive those pushes. But without more…"

Azazel clucked his tongue and shook his head slowly, gaze once more admonishing.

"No."

The demon sighed and turned away from the young hunter. "Alright, then. You're smart enough to know how these things work, Sammy."

Sam's heart stuttered as Azazel reached out and wrapped a hand around Dean's arm. The man had been silently recuperating from his most recent reintroduction to the wall. While following the conversation the best he could through an addled brain, ears ringing for reasons he didn't even know any more, and the pain of his broken body subjected to the steady, heavy pressure of Azazel's power, Dean wasn't fully paying attention. His focus did shift a little more to the present when that cold grip dug into his fractured forearm though.

"Stop!" Sam yelled as his brother cried out. The sound swiftly cut off and all Dean did was groan and huff through clenched teeth. Some focus returned to his brother's eyes as he glared at the demon with everything he had left. Which, Sam was terrified to admit, wasn't much.

"I may need him breathing," Yellow Eyes continued conversationally, glancing over his shoulder at his real interest, "but he doesn't have to be in one piece."

"I'm already not in one piece," Dean muttered, though he instantly regretted it when Azazel applied more pressure. Still, never let it be said that Dean Winchester backed down from a fight. Or an opportunity to piss in the face of the demon who destroyed his family. "I swear to God if you force that shit down his throat-"

"What are you and God gonna do about it?" Azazel tightened his grip and Dean had half a mind to tell him that God might not do much, but he sure as hell would. Soon as his dad showed up with that gun. "And I'm not gonna have to force anything. He's going to drink it all on his own, aren't ya Sammy?"

Sam tried to keep his focus on the demon, but he couldn't help his eyes sliding to that jar of blood and back again.

"Sam, no." The distressed command from his brother was more of a plea than anything, but Sam ignored it as he glanced over at the blood once more. He didn't need the older hunter to tell him what to do, whether or not future Dean thought it was the right call. Still, Dean shook his head from his position against the wall. "I can take it."

He didn't need the order, or the reassurance, or the decision made for him. All Sam needed was the memory of his brother's voice telling him everything he would come to be, everything he'd come to do, and all because of that viscous red liquid sitting ten feet from him. He didn't need Dean to make his choices for him; he was not going to become that Sam.

"You heard my brother." Sam tilted his chin up defiantly. "No."

Across the room from him, Azazel hummed, hand still poised around Dean's forearm. Sam prepared to hear yet another bone snapping in two, but the demon just stood there, a thoughtful look on his face. "I did hear him. Really, I've got some questions about that."

Dean let out a surprised little yelp as he was suddenly released from the wall. Yellow Eyes took a step back and to the side as the hunter's feet fell the inch or so to the ground and he staggered under his own weight. Dean hissed, immediately shifting off of his broken leg, though the other was a mess of bedraggled cuts and wasn't much better. He ended up supporting most of himself with the wall, and some masochistic part of his brain wished the demon would go back to holding his body up for him.

"See, I've been thinking. You're taking this whole torture thing really well." Azazel crossed his arms in contemplation, demeanor totally at ease. Both humans struggled with the sudden civil and downright surreal turn to the conversation. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been through something like it before."

Dean practically swallowed his tongue, biting down on the muscle in order to keep himself from sniping back that if this is what Azazel called torture he should try an hour with Alistair. Cold fingers gripped his chin, lifting his head. Dean's vision swam but he blinked his way through it with his good eye.

"Only, I do know better." Azazel stared at the hunter like he was trying to see straight through him. It was like a perversion of Cas's angel gaze, and Dean's chest flared indignantly at the notion. "You've never been in this much pain before."

The hunter snorted, but caught himself with a hiss as the demon's hand tightened around his face.

"We've been watching you since Mommy ate it on the ceiling." Azazel smirked at the way that jaw trembled beneath his fingertips. He imagined Dean would like nothing more than to bite his hand clean through if he could. "We watched both of you. So I know what I'm talking about when I say this should be breaking you."

The demon pulled away with an air of displeasure, pushing Dean's chin to the side even as he released him. "At least, more than it is."

"You don't know shit about me," Dean spat, turning his head back to glare at the thing that dared to touch him, that dared to think he knew what could break him. "And that'll be one of the last mistakes you ever make."

The demon made a noncommittal sound, not really listening. "You know, my daughter told me something interesting."

"Your daughter?"

Azazel turned towards Sam, almost like he forgot the other man was in the room. "Yes, the demon I'm sure you killed sometime in the last week. She was mine."

Sam stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

"What? You think you're the only one that can have a family?"

The broken hunter behind him snorted again, and he lashed out with his hand to deliver a strike to the man's bleeding torso. He cried out, but it petered into a hiss and then a full blown chuckle.

"I forgot about that," Dean muttered, lifting his head. He was smiling, teeth red with his own blood, yet the shit eating grin stayed firmly in place. Azazel regarded him with disgust. He struck again and Dean doubled over, sliding an inch down the wall.

"You think that's funny? That was my child. How would you feel if I killed your family?" Dean made a gurgling noise as Azazel caught him by the neck and hauled him back to his feet. "Oh, that's right. I forgot. I did."

The two stayed locked in a standoff, the hunter biting his tongue against every instinct to answer back, and the demon daring him to with ever tightening fingers around his throat.

"What did Meg say to you?"

Both hunter and demon turned, Azazel's grip lessening ever so slightly. Sam stared at them, eyes darting from one to the other. Dean had killed Meg right after announcing he was from the future. So there was no way that's what she could have told Azazel. Right?

The demon pulled away again and Dean let out a frustrated grunt as he caught himself on the wall. Honestly, hold him up, don't hold him up. Whatever, man, as long as the damn demon just made up his mind already.

"She said your brother tasted like righteousness." The demon announced, rather randomly for the two humans who glanced at each other with equal expressions of confusion. "When she kissed you, Dean-O, that first time I sent her after you. You said she tasted like sulfur, and she told me you tasted like righteousness. Honestly, I thought it was funny."

He chuckled, genuinely amused. It died off, however, when he realized his audience didn't seem to be in on the joke. Azazel sighed. Inside jokes were no fun when only you and a handful of top ranking demons knew the punchline. Especially when said punchline was standing right in front of you.

"I didn't think much of it. She always was a bit whiney. But then, peculiar things started happening. And you," he flicked Dean in the forehead, causing the hunter to jerk back, "suddenly turned into Superman. At least for a hunter, anyway."

"He's always been a good hunter," Sam snapped back defensively, snarling against the pressure that kept him pinned to the pillar.

"Good, yes. But this?" Azazel raised a brow in the younger brother's direction. "Spotting our double agent before the big event? A magical gun no one's seen in a century? Let's not forget the sudden willingness to offer baby Sammy's soul as a bargaining chip for one little woman."

Sam hissed at the mention of Jess, face reddening as he pushed and pushed against the demon's power. But he could tell that his own strength, that vibration beneath his skin, was almost gone. His eyes darted to the jar blood once more.

"You've always been a good hunter, Dean. Better than your Daddy, for sure." Azazel snagged Dean's chin once more, tilting his head up to meet his one eye. "But suddenly, you're just a little too good. And I have to wonder why that is."

Steel blue eyes blinked yellow, then drifted down to stare at Dean's chest. The hunter's swimming mind couldn't fathom what the hell the dude was looking at, and honestly couldn't put more effort into it than a quip about where his eyes were. If the darkening edges of his vision were any indication of his current state, he wasn't going to make it through much more of this scintillating conversation.

Azazel ignored his comment, eyes still focused on the boy's chest, searching for something he didn't have the power to see anymore.

"Do you believe in angels?"

Dean managed not to suck in a breath of air mostly through luck. His hearing was sort of going in and out, and while he'd love to claim he had super ninja spy skills and a hell of a poker face that kept him from giving away the spike of fear that shot through him, it was mostly because he registered the question several seconds after Azazel had already moved on. He didn't dare meet Sam's wide-eyed gaze, though.

"Our scouts on Earth reported one making a run for your friend's house. Bobby Singer, isn't it? Well, the halo didn't stay long – blasted out of there almost as quick as it came. Why do you think it would do that?"

The man from the future honestly had no fucking clue. Mostly because he had no idea what the demon was talking about. No angel had stopped by Bobby's for a visit - at least not one they were aware of. The hunter breathed through his nose, mostly to keep his burning lungs and aching chest cavity under control. His nose had pretty much gone to shit: almost certainly broken and definitely clogged with blood. It was just as good as a paper bag for his hyperventilating system and panicking brain.

Dean refused to look over at his brother. He knew the question Sam would be asking with his eyes and Dean honestly wasn't sure he could keep from answering it. Not that he knew the answer.

'Cas?'

His chest ached in response, and his uninjured hand twitched with the need to rub at his sternum.

"Yeah, sure, pal," he managed to say instead, pushing thoughts of the angel as far from his mind as he could. Personally, he should be getting a damn Oscar for the way his voice stayed steady and even sounded like his usual, sarcastic self. "I thought I was the concussed one. There's no such thing as angels."

"Ah, well. You may not believe in them." Azazel's yellow eyes tracked back up to his face. He licked his lips, as though remembering the taste of something. "But I think one of them believes in you. And I wonder what he could have left behind to make your blood taste so…disgustingly righteous."

The demon pulled his arm straight back, close to his side with his palm turned inward and hand flat and rigid. Sam had half a second to wonder what on earth Azazel was talking about – was he talking about Castiel? – before the demon plunged his hand and arm straight through his brother's chest.

Sam screamed, but it was nothing compared to what Dean did. The hunter's voice was raw and shattered with unmanageable pain. His eyes were blown wide and his body tried to double over, but had nowhere to go with the demon taking up new residence in his chest cavity. Sam all but started hyperventilating, certain that Azazel had punched straight through his brother's ribcage, maybe even going after Dean's heart like he'd seen a werewolf do on a hunt gone terribly wrong when he was eleven.

But Dean kept screaming, which meant he kept breathing, kept living. His voice eventually cut out due to the fact that his brain overloaded on the sheer amount of pain signals it was receiving and his throat closed up. There was no blood, no splatter that should have come naturally with a giant hole punched through a human's chest. Azazel didn't pull back, didn't rip out his brother's still beating heart like something out of a terrible sci-fi movie. Sam kicked and screamed against his bonds, but he kept his eyes locked on his brother's face. As long as Dean was clenching his teeth, skin reddening, and sweat and tears trickling down, he was still alive.

Dean, for his part, couldn't breathe. And yeah, that may be because a demon was elbow-deep in his chest cavity where his lungs normally resided, but he had a feeling it had more to do with the seizing pain rippling through every fiber in his being. His nerves were on fire, his brain could barely function under the onslaught, and he had one single thought circling his brain over and over again that he couldn't seem to shake.

Damn it all to hell, I actually feel bad for putting soulless Sam through this.

No one, not even dickless, soulless, robotic not-brothers deserved this level of agony.

He had no idea what Azazel was looking for with a soul-search. A panicking brain managed to remind him this could let the time-traveling cat out of the bag, but it wasn't like he could do anything to stop it. The clawing hand went deeper, and Dean honestly wanted to die. Frozen fingers that burned like dry ice rooted around in his chest, igniting flares and setting his torso afire. They wiggled where they didn't belong, where there wasn't room for them. The pressure started to build beneath his ribs as the demon went deeper into his being.

Abruptly, it all stopped. There was a single moment of peace; a revitalizing breath of air filled his screaming lungs; a second of eerie silence soothed his aching head. Dean's chest went cold, but not in the ghost right behind you going for the kill kind of cold. It was opening the freezer and sticking your head inside on a hot day. Refreshing. Invigorating. Relief from the fire and flames.

Then Azazel reached out and touched it and the calm exploded.

-o-o-o-

Sam didn't know what happened. One second, his brother was choking on screams so painful he couldn't get them past his throat. Azazel's whole arm was buried in his brother's chest in a metaphysical manner that only ghosts were capable of. Then Sam's vision – the entire cabin – was rocked by an explosion of white-blue light.

The hunter slammed his eyes shut against the onslaught, but the blast from the explosion caught him across the chest and he was ripped away from the pillar and the power holding him there. Sam went cartwheeling through the air, further back into the cabin. He landed hard, twisting in a way that made his back muscles scream. The light faded, leaving Sam gasping for breath on the cabin floor, fingernails digging into the dirt-streaked, rotting wood.

He looked up, limbs shaking from adrenaline and fading pain. It took a second for his vision to clear from the exposure. Azazel was sprawled a couple feet in front of him, just starting to pick himself up. He was laughing as he climbed to his feet. Dean was collapsed once more against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him, arms limp at his sides, head lolled to the left. He wasn't moving.

"Dean!" Sam scrambled to his feet, but Yellow Eyes flung out a hand and Sam found himself careening through the air once more, slamming into side wall of the cabin. His back protested, but he hardly felt it. The young hunter struggled against his invisible confines that he was quickly growing sick of, desperate to get to Dean and at least confirm his brother was still breathing.

"Well, that was refreshing!" Azazel's eyes were still glowing yellow, but there was a crazed gleam to them as he raised his arm. Sam's heart stuttered along with his lungs. The limb was charred – blackened beyond recognition – from his fingertips to mid bicep. Where the sleeve of his shirt had been before there was nothing; charred bits of flannel stuck to his melted flesh like a sick rendition of a skin graph.

The hunter turned away from the grotesque sight, fearful eyes searching his brother. He stopped breathing altogether when the same burns were evident in a blast pattern across Dean's chest.

"Dean?" The whisper was a scared little thing coming from a nine-year old boy during his first hunt, when his brother had taken a hit from a ghost straight into a tombstone and didn't get back up. Sam shuttered his eyes, shoving that little boy back down. "Dean, get up!"

But he didn't get up. He didn't move, and Sam couldn't tell from his pinned position against the wall if his brother was even breathing. Azazel was still laughing, indifferent to the useless, crippled limb or the unknown state of his captive.

"Oh, I didn't know the haloes had it in them," he announced loudly, finally lowering his ruined arm that no amount of power short of a soul exchange could heal. He moved towards the downed man, towering over his slumped form. The last embers of blue light were fading from the hunter's chest. The glow died out, leaving cloth and skin blackened from the defensive blast caused by a sliver of grace hidden away in the kid's soul. "You may not be one of mine, bucko, but you're somebody's alright."

Chapter Text

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Season 1: Chapter 30

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The demon left them alone in the cabin once more, probably to address the fact that half his arm was burned to a crisp, scaly flesh hanging off his limb like some sort of sick Halloween yard decoration. He didn't go far; Sam could hear him just outside the cabin. The hunter's limbs came free of the oppressive pressure of Azazel's power the moment the door shut, and he stumbled off the wall he'd been pinned to.

Sam didn't stop to question his newfound freedom. At this point, their captor had demonstrated quite clearly that an unfacilitated escape was unlikely. It was something Sam could stop and consider after he'd made sure his brother was still alive.

The younger Winchester raced to Dean's side, sliding to his knees beside the felled hunter. He didn't immediately spot movement in his brother's chest, heartrate and tension spiking in response. Sam reached out, resting a finger beneath Dean's nose, his other hand searching for an undamaged spot to rest against the man's chest. God, his skin was as charred and blackened as Azazel's. Sam had to bite his cheek and look away from the edges of the blast, where his brother's shirt had flash-burned right into his skin.

There's no way anyone could survive that.

Sam shook his head, trying to fight back the death toll ringing in his head for his brother. Dean could. Dean could survive all sorts of things.

"Come on," he whispered, fighting back the flood of water that blurred his vision and threatened to spill past his eyelashes. "We have- We have an apocalypse to fight, Dean. You can't leave that all on me."

His brother didn't stir, and Sam's fear went from hyperventilating in his lungs to sinking heavy in his stomach, cementing with realization. Dean's chest wasn't moving beneath his hand, and he'd detected no current of air on his finger. The death toll persisted and the hunter let out a frustrated cry. He hobbled on his knees to his brother's legs and grabbed his ankles. Sam pulled the older man away from the wall, mindful of his head hitting the floor too hard. He slid a cautious hand beneath his head, weary of skull or neck trauma. Nothing shifted beneath his touch, at least, and he thanked God for that thick skull if nothing else.

Dean's chest still wasn't moving and Sam started CPR. His brother's skin was still warm. Sam tried to silence the science-wise section of his brain that insisted it took time for a dead body to lose its heat. Dean wasn't dead.

Not yet .

Sam ground his teeth, muttering at his internal dialogue to shut the hell up. Dean's skill was pale and sallow. If- When he got his brother breathing again, blood loss would be his next concern. The beating had earned the hunter more bruises than broken skin, but some of the cuts were still sluggishly leaking, and Sam didn't even know how to triage the blast to his chest. At least any external damage he had taken from it seemed superficial. Mostly burns, which would have cauterized any potential bleeding. It spoke little to the internal injuries that would come with a ground-zero discharge capable of throwing a grown man and a demon across a room.

Sam tried to put it out of his mind. Fifteen compressions. The young hunter shut his eyes tightly against the way his brother's ribcage moved beneath each forceful push of his palm. Multiple broken ribs. From the beating or the blast was anyone's guess. Dean's sternum was intact, however, and that bore the brunt of the compressions and kept his heart moving blood through his body.

Thirteen. Fourteen.

"Come on, man. Don't make me kiss you."

His brother didn't answer and Sam didn't wait for him to, instead tilting Dean's head back and sealing their mouths together. The older man's chest rose with the breath of air, and Sam delivered another. He immediately went back to chest compressions.

"I can't do this alone, Dean. Please!"

It took two more rounds of compressions and rescue breaths, tears falling freely to splash atop his interlocked hands, before Dean's chest rose of its own accord in a desperate grab for air. Sam practically collapsed atop the man, grabbing at the back of his head to keep him from falling to the hard floor again. Dean hacked and grabbed weakly at his chest with his one sort-of-good arm. He was too out of it to complain about his brother cradling him and pushing their foreheads together as they both just breathed.

"S'mmy?"

"Here, Dean," the kid whispered, shuttering his eyes and forcing his face and lungs back under composure.

"You huggin' me?" Dean's good eye was half-lidded, fingers twitching lightly, neurotically, against his chest in a way that suggested he wanted to rub it. Sam wondered if it was a leftover motion from before his torso decided to become a bomb, or if the burns itched.

"Kissed you, too," he muttered with a laugh, finally pulling away from his brother and lowering him back to the floor gently.

"Gross."

"Yeah." Sam scooted back an inch, trying to give Dean some space as the hunter took slow, measured breaths. They were shallow and looked painful, but were steady in their way. The two sat in silent reprieve, Sam listening to his brother breathe with just barely concealed paranoia and an impending adrenaline crash. Dean focused on inhaling, exhaling, not dying, and not thinking about the blinding explosion or the hollow ache in his chest.

"You figured…how to 'scape yet?" Dean's sentences were fractured, punctuated with slow breaths and still slurred words. The bomb had done his concussion no favors, but while his vision and equilibrium were shot, his thoughts were at least semi-lucid for the time being. Coming back from the dead would do that to you, apparently.

"Nah. Thought I'd save your lazy butt, first." Now that Dean was at least not dead, Sam turned his eyes to the cabin door. Azazel hadn't come back in, but the hunter could see movement beneath the line of the door.

"Bitch."

"Jerk." He turned back to Dean. The older Winchester was breathing steady, hand finally settled atop his chest, eyes closed. "Dean, what was that?"

"S'plosion."

Sam couldn't help the laugh that bubbled past his lips, even if was half formed by hysteria. "Yeah, I figured that much out for myself, thanks."

"Sorry."

He didn't bother asking what he was sorry for. He suspected it was that he'd sent his kid brother tomahawking across the room with that little chest bomb of his. Not that Dean had likely been conscious for that. Or able to see past the bright light.

The younger hunter's brain took a misstep at that thought, then reversed to examine it. That white-blue light had been familiar, now that he reconsidered it. It was eerily similar to the weird, high-pitched explosion that had chased away the Baku nightmare and ended the dream world a week ago.

Hadn't Azazel said something about an angel at Bobby's?

Slowly, Sam's eyes moved down to his stare at his brother's rising and falling chest. The niggling in his brain was turning into a full-fledged idea, which brought with it both fascination and trepidation. He hadn't gotten very far in his research on angels (they had had a lot going on lately), but what he had read mentioned something about vessels needed for angelic possession. Dean corroborated the notion on the way to Max's, though in far less words, with Sam sort of filling in the blanks his brother hadn't wanted to say out loud. They were meant to be weapons of Heaven and Hell; rare humans capable of housing archangels. Vessels.

Could Castiel have been with them the entire time?

"Dean…" His brother slit open one green eye to stare up at him. "Was that Cas?"

A look of pain crossed the hunter's face and his fingers curled around the ruined edges of his shirt. It was clear from his shuddering breaths that he was fighting back panic and probably tears. Of course, given that he'd recently been tortured, had a demon's hand buried in his chest, and been technically deceased for at least forty five, fifty seconds, he was entitled to some manly crying. Even an emotionally challenged Dean Winchester couldn't argue with that, though Sam would never be so cruel (or suicidal) as to mention it aloud.

"I don't know." His voice was thick with something Sam could only compare to mourning, though he knew it wasn't quite the right fit. He didn't know what the story was with the angel, only that he had sent Dean back. But he recognized the emotion in his brother's words enough to know they must have been close.

It was weird to think of his big brother, staunch hunter and defender of humanity, caring for something so severely inhuman.

Dean was still valiantly trying not to think about it, and Sam's question was not helping. While he really didn't know what the hell that blast had been, he was seriously beginning to think it was Cas. The angel must have made the trip back with him, after all. What the hell his best friend was doing sitting in his chest, ignoring him for most of six months, was a whole other mystery for another time. If they ever got the time. Because what Dean didn't want to admit out loud – what he suspected was behind the harsh ache in his chest and the tightness of his throat and his burning eyes – was that if it had been Cas, setup with a nice Dean Winchester Sternum Condo, the angel was sure as hell gone now.

He couldn't muster the strength (or the courage) to look at the floor or the walls. But he'd seen that white explosion plenty of times before, most often followed by wing prints seared into whatever surface was nearby.

"Sammy." His voice was croaky and broke mid word. He cleared his throat and coughed, wincing as his broken ribs were jostled and his prickly, stinging flesh disturbed. "Are there…Are there, uh…"

Oh, man up, Winchester!

"Are there wing prints?"

Above him, Sammy frowned at the question. "Wing prints?"

Dean tried not to let the fact that Sam had no idea what he was talking about spark any significant amount of hope in him. "On the fl-floor. Or wall."

Sam's puppy-brown eyes tracked away from Dean's body and up the wall they were camped out next to, searching for something he clearly wasn't seeing. There was nothing there but old graffiti, hints of mold, and the evidence of Azazel's torture. Sam looked away.

The floor was equally bare of whatever Dean was fearful of seeing. The young hunter scanned the rest of the room, but his eyes stopped on a spread of crimson not far from them. Sam's brilliant brain completely faltered, ending all attempts to parse what wing prints would be doing on the floor. Instead, he sat by his brother's side, mind blank, staring at the spilled demon blood two and a half feet away.

The jar was in shatters among the thick liquid; it must have been knocked off the dresser in the explosion. Iron filled his nostrils suddenly, and then it was all he could smell. The metallic cloy of the blood was everywhere. Breathing became hard. Air hitched in his lungs as he tried to take in more of the precious oxygen, but none seemed available. He couldn't tear his gaze away from that puddle of red as it grew ever closer. Expanding. Creeping.

Sam didn't know what was happening to him. He couldn't look away. The vibrating hum beneath the surface was burning. His fingers twitched on his thighs. His mouth salivated and his heart beat like a freight train.

He wanted that blood.

"Sam?"

The young hunter startled, snapping his head back at his brother's low, panicked keen. He looked on the verge of an anxiety attack of his own for very, very different reasons.

"They're there, aren't they?" he whispered hoarsely. He pulled his gaze away from Sam, staring up at the ceiling as he tried and failed to keep a blank face. "God, he's dead. Again."

What?

Sam realized he had never answered his brother. However angels died, they must leave behind some sort of wing print. The kind of charcoal impression left by a massive explosion, he thought, as images of nuclear shadows came to mind. Oh, God.

"N-no," he stuttered, realizing his silence had done no favors to his brother, who was now sure that bomb had been his friend…exploding? Sam could ask questions about angelic death later. "No wing prints, Dean."

He staunchly kept his eyes on his older brother and didn't dare look back at that puddle.

Dean stared up at him, disbelieving and suspicious of his brother lying for only a moment before his face cleared and he sagged against the floor. Cas wasn't dead. The unhelpful voice that was his inner self quickly supplied the fact they weren't entirely sure Cas was ever alive or there to begin with. He told that voice to shut it, though, because no wing prints meant the angel wasn't dead, and that was a good enough place to start for him. Whether Cas was capable of being dead or dying in the first place was an existential question beyond Dean's emotional and mental capacity to handle for the time being.

The door to the cabin swung inward with a bang, and Sam instinctively moved himself between the danger and his brother, as best as he could while staying on the floor. Azazel strolled in, a new flannel covering his crispy arm. The shirt made him look almost human again, but the arm beneath the fabric remained ugly. Yellow Eyes paid it no mind, though, as he marched towards the two. Sam curled his fingers against his Dean's shoulder and chest, jaw set and chin up. He would not let the demon touch his brother again.

"Time for the main event, boys!" he announced. He didn't bother using his powers, moving straight up to Sam and grabbing him by the back of his shirt. The large human fought with everything he was worth – punches and kicks flying. Sam's fists took more damage than Azazel's meatsuit and the demon dragged the hunter back to the pillar in the center of the room.

He was straightened against it and a single push to his abdomen assured he stayed there. Azazel, confident his power would keep the boy pressed to the wood once more, strolled back over to Dean.

"Don't touch him! He's had enough!" Sam kicked out against the power that only seemed to be holding his torso in place this time. Azazel stopped by Dean's side, staring down at the hunter who glared right back at him. He didn't bother moving or trying to sit up – that strength was honestly beyond him now. Instead, he focused his energy into steady, even breathing and curled his hand protectively against his wrecked chest.

If Cas was in there, the demon was not touching him again.

But Azazel only bent down and hauled the hunter up, directing his words and attention more to Sam than the guy he was currently manhandling. "Oh, he's fine. Aren't ya, sport?"

The demon tapped him on the shoulder, half to push him against the wall – not that it took much to topple the hunter backwards against the supportive surface – and half in a sick mockery of comradery.

"Whoa!" Dean yelped when his one good eye focused on the hand currently giving his left shoulder a love tap. The hunter struggled away from the blackened skin and clinging flesh. "Uh-uh. No, no way. Keep those Kentucky Fried Fingers the hell away from me!"

Azazel's regarded Dean with an unimpressed look, the pat turning into a painfully tight grip just above his collarbone. The hunter still made a disgusted face at the crispy arm that settled him against the wall with the kind of firm push that said, 'stay.' The demon stepped back, releasing him almost cautiously, eyebrows raised in a way that clearly expected the hunter to collapse without the support. Dean did slide down the wall a bit, but managed to wedge himself into a position where the surface bore enough of his weight to keep him upright.

"Well…mostly fine." Azazel grinned at him.

Dean doubled the power of his glare.

"I admit," Yellow Eyes turned away from him and bent over, scooping up John's jacket from the floor and giving it a quick dust off, "I wasn't expecting that little lightshow."

The keys to the Impala slipped free from the split pocket and rang out as they hit floor. The demon scooped them up as well and tucked them into the pocket of his jeans. Dean growled from his position on the wall, but the Azazel ignored him. His attention returned to John Winchester's jacket.

The article of clothing was beyond repair, ripped in multiple places and down both sleeves in the demon's efforts to remove it from the hunter earlier that night. It was really more hanging rags than clothing now. Azazel glanced at the hunter, then his ruined chest, then the jacket, and seemed to make up his mind with a nod and a snap of his fingers.

Sam watched with wide eyes as the clothing was torn and bloodied one second, then whole the next. Azazel snapped a second time and the leather was suddenly snuggly fit around his brother's torso, good as new.

"I might have blown the fireworks a bit early. Didn't mean to bang you up quite that much, bucko." The demon stepped back into Dean's personal space and the hunter drew back as much as was possible with the wall already barely keeping him standing. Azazel pulled the jacket closed a bit more, particularly around his damaged chest.

"There. You can hardly even tell." He patted Dean's shoulder with a grin and stepped away. The demon turned towards Sam. He raised a finger to his lips with a conspiratorial wink. "It'll be our little secret, right, Sammy?"

"You son of a bitch!" Sam surged against the power holding him back, kicking out his legs because he could, though little good it did him. The young hunter opened his mouth to spit out something really unpleasant, but the rumble of a truck coming up a dirt drive killed the words still on his tongue. The kid turned his head, view of the front of the cabin blocked once more by the pillar, but the wall Dean was leaning against lit up as headlights pierced through the broken windows and moved along the surface.

Dad.

Sam locked eyes with his brother, meeting Dean's mixed gaze with his own.

"Show time!" Azazel clapped his hands together as the engine cut off outside, the light vanishing as a car door opened. There was tense silence in the room, the demon quiet in anticipation, and the boys in trepidation. Heavy footsteps preceded the cabin door banging open. Sam whipped his head around, again trying to see the rest of the room behind him to no avail.

John Winchester stood in the doorway, hand wrapped around the grip of an antique gun in one hand. Trained eyes assessed the single room before he strode into the space.

Sam met his gaze the moment he appeared beside the pillar, head turned to take in his son. "Dad."

John looked well-rested, Sam was relieved to see. He'd left before they'd been able to confirm the Baku dead, and some part of the youngest Winchester had chased after him not only to catch up, to maybe yell at him for being a stubborn ass, to give him a piece of his mind and aid in the hunt, but also to make sure he really was safe. Blood always did run thicker than water for Winchesters; a fact he'd tried so hard to escape.

His father gave a solemn nod in response. The young man took heart in that steadfast gaze. It had gotten him and Dean through many ugly spots, and he trusted it to get them through this one, too.

John turned back to the other two occupants of the cabin. The yellow eyed bastard stood beside his eldest, who was slouched against the wall looking for all the world like it was the only thing holding him up. The old hunter grit his teeth at the sight of his boy.

The way Dean favored his right leg spoke volumes as to the condition of his left. His jeans were torn to shit, stained dark with what John could only assume was his kid's blood. His own boiled in his veins at the rest of the boy. His old leather jacket was oddly clean; it still showed wear and tear from the years, but was unnaturally spotless on a bloody and torn body.

"Dad," Dean croaked, the twitch of a smile a reassuring sign for the struggling father buried within the steadfast hunter. His son's face was more swollen than not, though his one good eye was focused on his dad, pupil dilated but clear.

"Son," he whispered back, clearing his throat when the declaration was far softer than he'd intended.

"Is that my gun, John?"

The hunter's focus shifted to the demon, expression hardening to stone. John glanced down at the 1836 Colt Paterson he held in his hand, lifting his arm to chest-height to examine the antique weapon. With a deep, fortifying breath, he unwrapped his hand from the grip and held the gun out in his open palm, presenting it to the yellow eyed bastard.

Azazel strolled forward. Beside them, Sam tensed, every warning imaginable on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't bring himself to speak any of them. It was that gun or his brother's life, and the choice was not a hard one for him. The demon plucked the weapon from John's hand and the hunter lowered his outstretched arm with the stiffness of someone barely holding back a punch.

Yellow Eyes curled his charred fingers around the grip of the antique gun, running his other hand down the barrel in admiration. He reached his thumb up to the hammer, lowering it back slowly and listening to the settling of the chamber and the click of a bullet lining into place. Azazel gave a hearty sigh. "What a pain in the ass this thing has been."

He turned his shoulder into the room, raised the gun, and leveled it straight at Dean.

"No!" Sam screamed as the report of the weapon cracked through the cabin like thunder. Dean jerked back in shock as the bullet caught him in his right shoulder, just beneath the collar bone. Blood splattered the wall behind him as the bullet pierced straight through, embedding into the wood. He slid down another inch, good leg scrabbling for purchase. The hunter's eyes were wide with surprise, his chest heaving despite the bursts of pain each breath caused, and his workable arm reaching shakily up for the new injury.

But he kept to his feet, and he didn't die.

Brown eyes spun back to the weapon, still smoking in the demons outstretched arm. It wasn't the Colt. Sam could see the differences now that he was looking for them. His dad had brought a fake – he must have picked up an antique Texas Paterson on his way to the cabin.

Azazel lowered the useless gun to his side, sending John a baleful glower over his shoulder. "You're lucky that wasn't the real deal, John. Now where's my gun?"

The hunter grit his teeth, fisted hands shaking at his side as he struggled to keep his composure. Luckily, the anger coursing through him was as good a cover as any for the tremors of fear and adrenaline running parallel within him. His eldest son slid further down the wall, energy and consciousness clearly flagging.

"You son of a bitch-"

"I'll shoot him again."

"It's nearby." He kept his tone even and impressively calm. If there was one thing John Winchester was good at, it was refusing to fall prey to emotions. "Let my boys go and I'll take you to it myself."

Azazel lifted the false Colt, this time aiming for Dean's head. The kid, mess as he was, met the barrel straight on, chest heaving, hand clasped to his bleeding shoulder, body barely holding itself up. Yellow Eyes just smirked down the sight of the weapon.

"You can go get it, Johnny-Boy, or Sam here becomes an only child."

The youngest Winchester snarled, kicking out forcefully against the weight still holding him back. John clenched and unclenched his fists in indecision, eyes flickering between the demon and his ailing son.

"It'll take two people," he finally said through gritted teeth. "I'm not stupid enough to come in here without insurance. So we can go get it together, or-"

Sam tumbled off the pillar as his invisible restraints abruptly vanished. He righted himself quickly, but moved no further. Uncertainty warred across his face as he glanced between the members of his family, both who needed him.

"You have twenty minutes." Azazel finally withdrew the gun, twirling it around his finger. "Dean and I will be making the most of every one of them, so I suggest you hurry."

Dean growled by the wall, but the look he sent his family clearly said to get out while they could. He'd be fine. Sam started towards him on that stare alone. He wasn't leaving his brother with that demon for another second. Dean wouldn't survive it – he was barely surviving it now!

"Sam!"

His father's sharp command made the boy flinch, but stopped him mid step. He turned to confront the older man, anger and defiance immediately flashing to the surface. Both died at the stern look on John's face. Sam knew that look. Sure, it looked just like the expression their dad always wore when reprimanding his boys. But the young hunter had spent years reading the subtleties of his father and brother, particularly in strenuous, critical situations. He knew that look.

So he stalked towards his dad with the right amount of moody anger and hesitant glances over his shoulder at Dean. As soon as he was within arm's reach, John wrapped a firm hand to the back of his neck. It was possessive as it was comforting, as sure a paradox as the concerned but demanding look he gave his youngest.

"It'll be alright, son." John pulled Sam into a one armed hug. His eyes darkened as he locked gazes with the demon over his boy's shoulder.

The possessive gesture was an unmistakable challenge for Yellow Eyes. It was also enough to make him leer at the hunter and completely miss the way Sam reached around his father's waist, fingers finding purchase along the hilt of the Colt tucked in the waistline of John's jeans. He withdrew the weapon from his father's back, swinging his shoulder around. In one fluid motion, he brought his arm up, cocked and leveled the gun on the yellow eyed demon, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet tore from the barrel, its aim true. It ripped through the demon's chest, only milliseconds after Azazel disappeared. A startled breath left the hunter's lungs like a punch. The bullet shot through the cabin unhindered and slammed into the wall inches from his brother's head.

Dean jerked to the side, instinct and surprise taking over his failing body. He wasn't able to recover from the sudden, violent movement, and he fell more than slid the rest of the way to the floor.

John was already moving. From his coat pocket he pulled out a thick leather sack, fingers hastily working the strings loose as he reached Dean's side. Dropping to one knee beside the unconscious boy, the hunter spun in a half circle around them. The old joint twinged from too many rough years spent on the job, but he ignored the soreness. Within the frame of thirty seconds, he had a thick salt line poured from wall to wall in a half ring around himself and his boy.

Sam had moved with his father and now stood a scant foot away with his back to his family. He scanned the room with focus and anxious fury. The hammer of the Colt was drawn back once more, weapon raised and ready to fire as soon as he saw the yellow eyed bastard.

"Sam!"

The young Winchester glanced behind him at his father's bark, spotting the completely salt line. He took a hasty foot back, careful to step over the grains without disturbing the line. The boy immediately went back to scouring the room as John set the leather pouch aside and scooted up to his oldest. Dean didn't make a sound as their dad bunched up his own jacket and pressed it to the sluggishly bleeding shoulder wound. Sam could tell from his brother's breathing that he had finally lost the fight against unconsciousness.

"That line won't last forever."

Sam spun at the whisper, slimy and coming from their right. The demon was already gone, but the granules of salt shifted in the breeze of his disappearance. John managed to firm up the line and hold the makeshift bandage to his son.

"Neither will your brother."

This time Sam fired before he had line of sight on the demon. His aim was still good, drilled in by years of training to act faster than his vision allowed. But the demon blinked out once more and the bullet bit into the front wall of the cabin.

"Sam." Once more, his father's voice forced him to pull his gaze from the room and back to his family. The tone was far too familiar and set Sam's teeth on edge. The demon would be back at any moment, and this was no time for a damn lecture. John stared at him, then the gun with something fierce and warning in his gaze. Terrible realization filled the boy, turning his lungs and gut to cement. He turned his back to the room to shield the weapon from sight as he slid open the chamber.

Only two bullets left.

Damn it. The way his dad was looking at him meant they didn't have spare ammo, either. Sam had already wasted two in his anger and desperation, the bullet count the last thing on his mind in the face of his family's annihilation. He twisted the cylinder shut. The demon could vanish faster than his eye could even register. Sam knew his worth as a sharp shooter, and it wasn't that good.

"I can save Dean, you know."

Sam stiffened at the voice coming just over his shoulder. John stilled his ministrations on his oldest boy, turning sharp eyes to the Yellow Eyed Demon standing just outside the line of salt. Pale irises regarded the man whose son's life hung in the balance.

"Maybe in exchange for that gun." That sickening gaze slid from John to Sam like slime. "And a little something more."

John lashed his hand out faster than Sam could turn around with the Colt. Water arced through the air, splashing across the demon's chest. The liquid soaked into the flannel and both hunters waited for the sizzle and steam of the unholy. Azazel glanced up from his chest, a single brow raised in amusement.

"You think something like that works on something like me?"

Sam made to turn, raising the gun and the demon disappeared once more.

"Son, give me the Colt." The order was non-negotiable and John held his hand out expectantly. His youngest looked down at the weapon, eyes cloudy with thought and emotion that they didn't have time for now. John waved his open palm expectantly. "This is me. I won't miss."

Sam still stared at the gun. He knew his father's worth as a sharp shooter too, and it was better than his own. The boy's fingers tightened around the handle, considering his options. John was still holding his hand out, other arm cradling Dean. Dean needed a hospital, and he needed it yesterday. Sam's eyes roved over his brother, blood dripping from so many wounds.

The youngest Winchester closed his eyes briefly, making peace with the same decision he'd once before faced. Sam turned around, raising the Colt to his head. A sound he had never heard his father make before escaped the man's throat. He was watching his boy raise a gun that could kill anything – that would destroy his soul, if John Winchester believed in such a thing – to his own skull. Sam couldn't spare him any of his focus, eyes locked on the center of the room as he waited.

Azazel did not make him wait long. The demon reappeared right in his sightline, several feet away with a sour look. "Using the same bluff twice, Sam? I thought we were past this."

Sam flexed his fingers around the cold grip of the gun, but otherwise didn't move. He ignored the way his lungs begged for air like he wasn't breathing and his heart beat away at his rib cage like it was the lead drummer at a Metallica concert. "It's not a bluff."

"Sammy…" John's voice was quiet, probably the softest Sam had ever heard it. He couldn't look his dad's way, couldn't see the disappointment or concern. This wasn't a bluff, but it would turn into one if he couldn't keep his resolve rock steady.

Azazel took a step forward, head tilting to the side in an inhuman, calculative way that set Sam's nerves on edge. He struggled not to counter the move with a step back.

"What's it gonna get you, tiger?" Yellow Eyes flicked his gaze to the two men on the ground behind him. "I'm going to tear through them as soon as you're dead."

"No. You won't. You're going to let us walk out of here. Then my dad and I are going to drive my brother to the nearest hospital, and you're not going to follow us."

The demon snorted. "And they're not the droids I'm looking for, I take it."

There was a silly, irrational part of Sam, likely born of hysteria and stress, that wished Dean was awake because he was so much better at mindless banter and he would have enjoyed that line. But Dean wasn't awake, this wasn't a clever line in a movie, and Sam couldn't afford to falter.

"I'm not just your favorite, am I?" Because some of this was a bluff, and he would never pull it off if he didn't sound like he believed it. "I'm it. I'm the one. You already know none of those other kids have what it takes. They won't get the job done."

The change in the demon's demeanor was subtle, but his face twitched as a war between distaste and severe satisfaction started its way to the surface of his skin.

"Are you going to risk losing that? Waste twenty-three years of waiting – grooming – just to kill two hunters?"

Yellow eyes swirled back to their natural steel blue, and slid slowly over to the two men behind Sam. The unpleasant expression on his face broke as he gave a casual little shrug. "They are really annoying hunters."

Sam cocked the hammer of the colt with his thumb, and Azazel finally relented with an eye roll. His body language turned on a dime, tension fading in an instant. He let out a boisterous laugh and clapped his hands together. There was a swagger to him that hadn't seemed possible a tense ten seconds ago.

"You. You!" He waggled his finger at the hunter. "Still shooting straight down the center, slugger!"

Sam clenched his teeth as the demon all but danced before them.

"Oh, breaking you is going to be a pain in the ass, I can tell." Azazel's eyes slipped closed, his head tilting back with a deep and prideful breath. A smile played at his lips that made Sam's stomach clench. When he opened his eyes once more, there was a predatory gleam to their blue depths that hadn't been there before. "But it's gonna be a thing of beauty when I do."

The demon enjoyed himself a moment longer before simmering down. He regarded Sammy calmly. The young hunter still held the gun tightly to his head, almost nervously now. Azazel's smile smoothed out and he glanced past the staunch boy to the brother on the floor, shielded protectively – uselessly – by his father. The kid was getting a bit low on blood, the demon noted, and that chunk of grace in his chest didn't seem to be doing him any favors in the healing department.

Perfect.

Azazel locked eyes with his favorite kiddo once more and dug into the pocket of his jeans. Sam's hand flexed around the gun, but there was no need. The demon pulled out Dean's car keys and tossed the bundle at the hunter, who caught them one handed.

"Better drive fast, Sammy."

Then he was gone.

-o-o-o-

Sam dropped his arm and the Colt with it as soon as the demon disappeared. He had no guarantee that Azazel was truly gone; the demon could just be letting them think they were free. Either way, it didn't really matter. If they didn't get Dean medical help immediately, he was going to die. So they had to risk it; they had to try.

The young hunter turned his back on the room, tucking the Colt into his jeans and crouching beside his brother and father. This time, he couldn't afford to heed the shaking in his hands or the way his head spun with a rush of vertigo and nausea following his most recent, purposeful brush with death. Holding that damn gun to his head was worse than any close call he'd had on a hunt. It was so much worse because he had to accept, each time, that he was ready and willing to die, to pull that trigger and cease existing.

It terrified him just how easy it was, both times. It wasn't just Azazel hoping to never see that move again.

John was staring at him with an expression Sam didn't have the energy to decipher. He settled on his knees beside his brother, blurry vision feeding him the same conclusion Yellow Eyes had taunted him with. Dean was seriously running out of time.

"You should have given me the gun." That look his father was giving him didn't waiver. Sam filed it away as disappointment. It was the most likely conclusion anyway and the easiest for the beleaguered son to push from his mind. "We could have ended this!"

Sam was too tired to fight, he decided, curling his fingers into loose fists to hide the tremors from his father and from himself. "Dean doesn't have time for your revenge, Dad."

He studied his brother's injured body, trying to decide the best way to lift the broken hunter without injuring him further. There was no way of telling if Dean had suffered internal damage from that bomb blast, and he was loathe to move those broken ribs. They needed to get him to a hospital somehow, though.

Well, if CPR didn't puncture a lung, what more can moving him do?

Sam scooped his arms under his brother's shoulders, intending to push Dean into an upright position enough to gather his legs beneath him and lift the man into a bridal carry. If awake, his brother would protest fiercely. Sam could already hear the flustered, furious outcry that Dean wasn't anybody's bride, fuck you very much. But he wasn't awake, and Sam couldn't risk a fireman's carry with his brother's ribcage as it was.

John grabbed him harshly by the arm before he could transition Dean upright. The youngest Winchester managed not to jerk away, though the first degree burns on the inside of his arm protested angrily under the harsh treatment.

"Those bullets were made special for that gun, Sam. Once they're gone, it's useless! You have to make every one of them count."

Sam just stared at his father, eyes going dead to the reproach in his voice and the anger in every line of his body. "That's what you're worried about right now? Your son is dying and you want to lecture me about wasting ammo?"

"Damn it, boy, killing that thing comes first – before you, me, your brother. Before everything!"

A groan interrupted the argument. Dean was starting to come back around, good eye cracking open. The green iris was glazed with pain and confusion, and Sam doubted Dean knew where he was. But he knew that angry voice, even if his clouded brain couldn't process the words.

"Dad…" His voice was wrecked, and Sam slid his eyes closed in regret. Getting him to the car would have been far easier on Dean if he'd stayed unconscious for it.

Sam pulled away from his father's grip. He reached behind him for the Colt and pulled it free from his waist. The youngest Winchester all but shoved the gun at John's chest, the force of it causing his father to stumble back on his heels. John released his arm in order to catch the weapon before it tumbled into his lap.

"No, sir. Not everything." He said it straight to his father's face, daring him to choose the demon over his oldest son. There was still hesitation there, side by side with pain and what Sam knew was fear even if John Winchester would never own up to it. The young hunter gave him a pointed look, then scooped his hands beneath Dean's armpits and, with a silent apology, hauled his brother up.

Dean let out a breathless groan and what was probably meant to be an "oh hell." He spat a mouthful of blood to the side, words too garbled and wet to understand. He may not be very aware of what was going on outside his world of pain and spinning, but he knew his brother's presence by his side. That was the same as safe in his book, so he allowed Sam to start shuffling them forward and helped the best he could with uncooperative feet.

With his brother's least injured arm slung over his shoulder, Sam helped him hobble on one leg to the door of their prison. Dean was making a valiant effort, biting down on the pain that every step surely caused. Sam opted to honor his effort and not carry him until he faltered. The upright struggle was probably better for his busted ribs anyhow, even if it was hell on his broken limbs.

The youngest Winchester didn't wait to see if his father followed. He moved his brother through the front door, still open from John's entrance. Relief flooded him on an irrational level at the sight of the dirt drive, sans stairs, and the Impala parked only a half dozen feet away. Sam had already been mentally preparing himself for up to a half-flight of stairs with his one-legged, flagging brother. What cabin didn't come with a rickety wooden staircase on its front porch? Just seeing the car – their home – so close, with no further obstacles between them, felt like a win.

It was the little things in life, really.

He heard John's heavy boots walking the inside of the cabin – what sounded like a perimeter sweep – as he hauled Dean towards the car. Sam was just trying to figure out how he was going to get the door open and his brother inside when their dad appeared at his elbow. John reached around his sons to pull open the back door of the Impala, and Sam slipped Dean inside as gingerly as possible.

His dad moved around to help pull Dean through the backseat so he could lay along the length of it. The boy mumbled something almost unintelligible that sounded a hell of a lot like 'Bastard did drive my car.'Sam couldn't believe it, staring at his brother with the ridiculous urge to laugh right there. Their dad, almost gently, told Dean to shelve it and stop talking. He closed the driver's side passenger door and Dean settled his head against the interior of it as soon as it clicked shut.

John moved for the driver's seat automatically, but Sam was already pulling open the door and sliding in behind the steering wheel. The older hunter faltered for only a moment of genuine uncertainty before going around the back of the vehicle to the passenger side. The Impala wasn't his car anymore, and his sons weren't children. Sam started the old vehicle up with a deep, welcoming rumble.

Glancing at his truck parked to their side, John hesitated climbing into muscle car, instead considering following the boys to the hospital instead. One look at his barely conscious son in the back seat banished the notion from his mind. He climbed into the Impala and Sam reversed down the dirt road as fast as he could without jostling their cargo too much.

-o-o-o-

Dean easily lost time surrounded by the comforting, familiar rumble of his Baby beneath his hurting body. The first stretch of road had been torture, both in the slow progress they made and the tossing of the low-riding muscle car on a forest road. But they'd hit a paved path soon enough, the ride smoothing out and speeding up, and Dean found himself mentally unfurling as his Baby bore them towards blessed morphine.

The thought of a hospital was one of relief, rare as it was in their line of work, and he found the idea disconcerting. At first, Dean blamed the uncomfortable weight in his chest on that. No hunter ever volunteered to go to the hospital. If you needed medical attention that badly, your odds of making it to the next hunt were slim. But the weight became a niggle in the back of his brain that wouldn't leave him be, so Dean next chalked it up to the numerous injuries, the explosion of light from his sternum that he was still refusing to think about, and multiple concussions. Yet, still it persisted. Dean frowned in the backseat as the nagging started to poke holes in the peaceful lull cocooning his brain. He just wanted to fall asleep in the back of his Baby with his family safe and sound with him. Was that so much to ask, damn it?

His train of thought stumbled and the worry became full-fledged panic. This whole thing was awfully familiar, wasn't it? And not in a good way. His dad in the passenger seat, speaking terse, quiet words. Sammy sitting rigid in the front, steering them to safety as fast as his Baby would go. The gentle give of the backseat beneath his bleeding, broken body. Dean knew, though it took his addled brain too long to peace it together, that they'd been here before.

The semi slammed into the Impala, t-boning it straight off the country road, before Dean could form the words to warn his family.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

END of SEASON 1

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Interlude I

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Heaven came in many forms, far too many to count. God's paradise was an ever shifting land of light, color, and peace. To the angels that patrolled its halls, it presented shimmering towers, endless halls of white stone, and domed ceilings that reached for the heavens, painted in the ever shifting colors of the sky below. The stone with which it was built was smooth as glass and shone with iridescent colors of all the wings of the Heavenly Host. The high arches and open-air courtyards were perfect for resonating the voices so often raised in heavenly rejoice.

For the humans that resided in their individual paradises, Heaven was a mirror of the Earth they had spent their physical life on, enlightened by the divine. A paradise of their own making, etched from their happiest moments and most cherished memories.

Castiel often visited with the humans who resided in his Father's kingdom. Most did not take notice of him. Some mistook him for friends and family that would come and go in their reminiscing. His favorite soul to visit had not once noticed his presence, mistaken or otherwise, which was fine for the angel. He did not frequent Arthur Staten's afterlife for the man's company, but for the unique beauty with which he viewed his world.

Arthur was autistic. While his soul did not bare the same hardships his body had carried, the young man knew no other perception of the world than that which he had seen through a brain that processed visuals so differently than most of his kind.

Castiel had yet to find a word that accurately captured the human's exceptional perspective.

The visualization of Arthur's world was simultaneously muted and explosive. Colors were vibrant and overwhelming, but came in amorphous blobs that had more in common with watercolor masterpieces than the people, places, and things they were. The visuals were not important to Arthur, though. It wasn't how he saw the world. He visualized through sound and touch.

His mother was a gentle brush of the back of a hand or the playful nudge of an elbow to his side. She was the off-key humming of a song Arthur didn't know the name of, nor understood the need to label something that was already identifiable by the very sounds comprising it. The second chorus that was most defined as his mother was always off pitch in the worst of ways. Such a thing grated on the man's sharp hearing and perfect mathematical understanding of pitch and tone, but it was so familiar that it was one of the most comforting sounds in the world to him despite its blatant flaws.

Castiel liked Arthur's heaven. Today was one of his preferred memories from the man's life. As a child, Arthur's mother often took him to the park down the street from their house. He would count the cracks in the sidewalk as they went. The number never changed, and that always made him happy. The other kids would play on the colorful structures that squeaked with rust and clanged the way hollow metal does when barreled into by a forty pound ball of unleashed energy. Arthur sat with his mother and watched the way each shriek or giggle changed the hue and shape of the splashes of color that represented each child.

Castiel sat on the bench next to Arthur and his mother, watching the world around him shift from the touch of a breeze across Arthur's cheeks, the brush of his mother's hand to his forearm, and the barking of a dog impatiently waiting for her master to throw her favorite ball.

"Ah, there you are."

The angel turned to look over his shoulder at his approaching brother, who swaggered like a human even when he had no vessel. Balthazar was considered by many in the Host as odd, but Castiel found his individuality curios and, dare he say, endearing.

"Thought I'd find you here," his brother said as he slid onto the bench beside him, wings catching the bright sunlight of Arthur's memory.

Castiel did not respond, turning his attention back to the children still playing. Many of his garrison knew he came here to seek solace and revelation. Like they did not understand Balthazar, many did not understand Castiel either. Perhaps that was what endeared him to his brother, and his brother to him.

"What's going through that head of yours, Cassie?"

That was another thing that set Balthazar apart from the rest of the Host. The way he spoke was quite…human. The angel had taken a fancy long ago to the different lilts of human language, and often expressed his many grievances that Enochian allowed for little deviation of its own. So he spent centuries tweaking their native tongue until he had his own, distinctive version. It was considered, by many, reprehensible. Castiel just thought it sounded vaguely British.

Given that the two of them were among the few angels who actually sought out humanity's various paradises on their leisure and even enjoyed the remembered worlds, it was not too peculiar that Balthazar had adopted some of the species' more acceptable quirks. Nor was it actually a punishable offense. Just…unorthodox.

"I am puzzled," Castiel answered his brother eventually, honest as he always was.

"Color me surprised," Balthazar responded in a tone Castiel did not understand but was beginning to identify as meaning the complete opposite of whatever was spoken. Quirks. "You usually are whenever I find you here."

Balthazar shifted, tucking a leg up onto the bench and turning his chest towards his brother. One brown and white speckled wing flapped, scattering the freshly fallen leaves across the ground around them. Arthur turned towards the two angels, the world growing quieter as he did so, but his eyes remained unseeing of their colors. His mother started up her gentle humming, and soon his attention was called back. Balthazar settled the wing over the top of the bench.

"What's got your knickers in a twist this time?"

Castiel did not know what knickers were, but he knew they were more twisted than ever before.

"There is a human – a man – praying to me." The stoic angel turned his full attention to his more charismatic brother. Perhaps this was a good happenstance. Perhaps Balthazar would have some thoughts as to how to address his predicament.

"A man, eh?" Balthazar's facial swirls shifted form and color in both interest and mockery. Castiel resisted the urge to glare. It would be rude.

"Yes. He prays quite often, and to me specifically." Castiel thought back to each of those pleas. He frowned, brow pinched in vexation. "Sometimes he's quite angry with me. Others, he requests my assistance: my guidance. Sometimes he just…talks."

Beside him, Balthazar shrugged. "Humans are strange, lonely creatures. They alleviate that loneliness with speech."

"But why to me?"

"Who knows? Humans have fads, and the supernatural is in right now. Some poor SOB probably stumbled across your name and decided you were the one to save his wretched existence." The way Balthazar put extra flourish into his words made Castiel doubt very much that was the case. "Maybe it was a Thursday."

The far more reserved angel was sure that if had conventional eyeballs as humans did, he would be rolling them. But he did not, and his brother was trying to help him in his own, unique way.

"He…" Castiel hesitated for a moment, unsure how to voice his supposition. Balthazar watched him expectantly, support coloring his face despite his often acerbic tongue. With only a slight shift to his celestial wavelengths – the equivalent of a flush – Castiel admitted, "It's foolish."

"Nonsense; nothing's foolish but fools, Cassie. And neither you nor I fit into that category." The angel paused briefly, then tilted his head in concession. "No matter what Zachariah says about me."

Castiel could not help the laughter that flitted across his face. Slightly more at ease, as he was sure was his brother's intention, he relented, "This human speaks to me as if he knows me, Balthazar."

His brother hummed in thought, turning his head away to stare at the shifting colors of the playground. "And you haven't taken any strolls crust-side lately? Mingled with the natives?"

Castiel tilted his head towards the other angel, expression chiding. "You know it is not permitted; the gates are shut."

"Well, only one thing to do then." Balthazar pushed up and off the bench. Castiel watched him in earnest. He was in honest need of an opinion beyond what he had formed by his own confused thoughts. Balthazar turned back to him with a flourish of wings and a grin Castiel immediately knew he would regret causing. "We'll just have to fix that miserable travel record of yours."

The angel blinked, staring uncomprehendingly up at his brother. "What?"

"Come on, Cassie! You've got a human begging you for your help. Let's go find out why!"

Castiel continued to stare. "Balthazar, it is impermissible. We don't have authorization for a mission on Earth."

His brother rolled his head in a manner Castiel suspected was much like a human rolling their eyes. Balthazar locked his gaze on the reluctant angel as he himself stood, bold and intrepid, with a challenge in his many eyes. "Come, brother. Were we not meant to be the shepherds of men?"

The angel hesitated. That was true… The Host had been tasked with the guardianship of mankind since its creation, to look after them and guide them. That was why man was able to pray to the Heavenly Host in the first place.

"But the gate is closed."

"Please," Balthazar scoffed, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing to himself. "You think I learned all this from old, dead wankers? The gate's not the only way out of this place."

His brother extended his hand, and Castiel shifted his gaze to it.

"Come on, Castiel. Your sheep is calling."

-o-o-o-

As their incorporeal feet touched down on God's green earth, Castiel took in a deep breath as he had not in almost a century. Beside him, Balthazar looked far too smug, causing a sheepish expression to filter across the angel's features. It had been far too long since he stood amidst his Father's many creations and admired them for their beauty as much as their flaws. He had not realized how much he missed it.

"Alright," his brother clapped his hands together, looking around at the small forest village they'd touched down in, somewhere in northern Germany. "Where's that human of yours live, hm?"

Castiel quieted his mind and grace to recall the man's last prayer. He had not spoken to Castiel in several days, but the angel could easily remember the last echoes of that voice. It had plead for assistance for another; his brother, named Sam. His appeals eventually turned to anger when 'Cas,' as the man often called him, had not miraculously appeared at the hospital the two humans resided in.

"Evanston Regional Hospital Emergency Room, in Evanston, Nebraska," he repeated the information the human had left him several times in increasingly distressed messages.

Balthazar raised an eyebrow. "A Yankee, huh? Alright then; US of A, here we come."

Castiel understood almost nothing of what his brother said, but considering Balthazar had been making unauthorized visits to the planet for some time now, he chose to follow his lead. The two angels took flight, soaring over forests, lakes, farmlands, and great expanses of ocean.

-o-o-o-

They landed in the hustle and bustle of an ER receiving area. Nurses darted to and fro, expressions harried, but every movement executed with terrifying efficiency. Doctors came in and out of halls, calling names from clipboards or escorting nurses with patients on stretchers through a set of double doors, disappearing beyond.

Castiel had not visited the earth since his garrison's last mission in the late eighteen hundreds. Back then, steam engines were considered the industrialized revolution of transportation and electricity a privileged commodity. Of course, he had seen the world change and develop through the memories of Heaven's charges. He was familiar with the advancements, though he had never taken the time to learn of them at a more hands-on level. Now, standing in the middle of the chaos that was the twenty-first century, he was… overwhelmed.

Balthazar looked like a kid in a candy shop. "Amazing, isn't it? All this, in a hundred and fifty years. And Zachariah still calls them mud-monkeys."

Castiel cast a curious glance at his companion's scoffing tone in regard to their commanding officer. It was no secret that Balthazar and Zachariah had a…difference of opinions. However, Castiel was fairly certain humanity wasn't one of those. "I did not know you held mankind in such esteem."

His brother laughed, holding out his arms at their environment. "It's the luxuries I admire, Castiel! Not the humans. I mean, look around. They really know how to live it up!"

He then paused, tapping a finger to his chin in a very human way. "Perhaps a hospital isn't the best place to admire the finer things…. After we find your boy, I'll show you the high life, Cassie. Just you wait."

The conservative angel spared him a skeptical, if not very confused look.

"One word, brother: hot tubs."

"That is two words," Castiel countered as he returned his senses to the environment around them, deciding Balthazar was once more being…well, Balthazar. He concentrated on the many souls residing in this building. Several of them were fading, which explained the reaper also patrolling the floors. He did not, however, find the one he was looking for.

"You're no fun," Balthazar was griping, crossing his arms. "So, where's your man?"

"He is not my man," the angel answered automatically, but his face was pinched in thought. "Nor is he currently here."

Balthazar puckered his lips, entertainment at this adventure beginning to fade. Honestly, he'd assumed they'd find some pimpled up teenager locked in his room, gothed to the nines and praying to angels and the gods of punk rock. He'd have gotten a kick out of the horrified look on his brother's face, and then he'd show him what he was really missing.

"Humans move, Cassie. It's kind of their thing."

His brother spared him a scathing look. "I am aware of that, Balthazar. However, his brother was gravely injured; I did not think they would relocate so quickly."

"Perhaps the brother died." The angel picked at his hand. If he was human, he would surely be cleaning the underside of nails he did not have as an angel. Perhaps Balthazar was spending a bit too much time with humans. "Or your man found someone else to give him the miracle he went looking for."

Castiel flinched at the remark. Balthazar was not a cruel angel. Unlike others in the Host, especially in recent centuries, his brother did not speak to inflict punishment. Balthazar was remarkably non-judgmental in that regard. He did not, however, practice empathy either, resulting in sharp comments that were bitter only in the truth of them. His words often stung more than cruelty ever could because of that validity.

The angel, remorseful that he had not answered the human's pleas sooner, prayed to his Father that the man had not sought help in darker places. He added a second, silent entreaty that the brother had not perished, though he had less hope for it. Humans died. It was also 'what they did.' Castiel took some solace in knowing there was little he could have done, had he come. Preferential treatment was not acceptable, not against the natural order of things and not without authorization from higher up the chain of command than a foot soldier.

He closed his eyes and extended his senses, sure that he could find the soul that had cried out to him with just a little more effort. The task had seemed unnecessary previously, given he thought he had a location for the human. It may have been faster to do this from the start, he reasoned, but it would have been far more difficult from across an ocean.

"I've found him." Castiel pulled his senses away from Sioux Falls, South Dakota and focused back on the hospital waiting room and his expectant brother. "They are not far."

Balthazar made a gesture with his hands that Castiel interpreted as 'get going then', in a voice that sounded annoyingly akin to his brother, actually. He spared the other angel a glance that was bordering on annoyed – about as expressive a reaction one could ever hope to get out of Castiel – and spread his wings to fly.

The floor trembled, disrupting both angels in their pre-flight movements. The humans around them stumbled and faltered as the ground shook. Then the walls joined in and objects scattered throughout the room began to vibrate and rattle. The light fixtures above started flickering, and both angels exchanged perplexed expressions.

"Earthquake!" A nurse shouted as she wrapped herself across another human lying in a bed equipped with wheels.

"Here?" a male responded back, just as confused as the two angels who stood amid them, feeling the tremors through the waves of their incorporeal bodies and knowing it was no earthquake.

When the ground took on a finite rumble of the damned, Balthazar turned his surprised features to his brother. They felt it at the same time: the swarm of evil descending on the hospital. Castiel immediately took stock of the humans around them and knew, though he did not know where such evil in such proportion was coming from, they could not confront it here.

Balthazar apparently had the same thought, as he grabbed Castiel's arm and spread his wings. "Fly!"

The two angels launched themselves from the Evanston emergency room as fast as their wings could carry them. A mass of formless, writhing demons followed after.

-o-o-o-

The fastest of the beasts, the ones weighed down by less sin and years in the pit, gained on them as they fled to the nearest unpopulated area. Several straggles of black smoke managed to swarm around the tip of Balthazar's wing, clinging to the dusty brown feathers, and he went down hard with a cry.

Castiel banked immediately, dive bombing after his brother. He flapped his wings harshly at the demon clinging to his kin, sharp edges of his primaries a weapon all their own. The angel felt a swell of relief when the creature screeched and released Balthazar's wing, but the damage was already done. Castiel held tightly to his brother, helping the injured angel land on the ground far smoother than his previous trajectory would have permitted.

"Your wing," he said immediately, needing to know the extent of Balthazar's injury. He pulled his blade from the depths of his grace, and brandished it at an incoming demon. The creature died quickly, little match for the wrath of one of God's finest. Castiel dispatched of two more quickly, earning them a moment respite as the fastest of the demons were all dealt with at the tip of his blade.

The rest of the hoard would not take long to catch up.

Balthazar spread the appendage experimentally, but immediately crumpled it back to his side with a flinch. He shook his head. "No good."

Castiel twisted his blade in his grip, worry gnawing at his internals. He had hoped the injury was not so severe as to hinder their flight. The strength of the demon stench seconds before it had swarmed the hospital indicated a large number of enemies. Flight was a far more favorable option than confrontation, especially with only the two of them. Where the hoard had come from or why there was such a presence of hell spawn on Earth, Castiel could not fathom.

"Very well, we will fight," he spoke calmly, a millennia of training and battle soothing his feathers and quieting his worries. There would be time for questions after they survived the battle.

Balthazar shook his head, pushing at his brother. "Go. Find that human."

Castiel's face pinched in confusion and clear disagreement. The human? He was hardly the angel's concern now. The incoming demons and his injured brethren were the clear priorities.

"Please," his brother scoffed at the look. "I can still fight, and it'll take more than a couple demons to take me down."

"Balthazar, the man is not of import-"

"He was important enough for you to come down here, wasn't he?" The angel folded his injured wing behind his back, blade sliding into his hand in preparation of the fight to come. "This amount of hell spawn won't go unnoticed. The Host will be dispatched, and you won't get another chance, Castiel."

The angel did not understand why Balthazar would push this, but there were many things he did not understand about his brother. Yet, he spoke the truth. Castiel was not disobedient by nature; to have disregarded the orders of his superiors to come to the aid of a human's call… Well, Castiel didn't know why he'd done it, but he could not deny the pull that had led him to do so.

He offered Balthazar his blade. It was tied to his own grace, but his brother would be able to wield it. Hopefully, the addition of another weapon would guarantee his cocky words were not misplaced.

Balthazar just smiled and pushed his hand back. "Keep it. Your luck is terrible, Cassie. The beasties will probably all follow you and leave me alone."

The angel tilted his head, his features shifting in an unamused way.

Although Balthazar always took great joy in the way Castiel never did get a joke, he sobered some at his companion's unrelenting concern and equal rigidity. Wrapping his hand around Castiel's, he pushed his brother's blade more firmly to the angel's chest. "Go. Find that human. And I'll meet you in Zachariah's office for one of his rousing speeches on self-restraint."

Castiel waivered. Partly because of the reminder that there was no way they could keep their Earth-side jaunt a secret. Even if Heaven did not send a squad their way to disperse the demons, Castiel would have to report such a mass of hell spawn, as well as the troublesomely fast response to their arrival in Evanston. Another part of him hesitated, worry flickering through his grace that he would find himself standing in their superior's office alone, without his friend by his side.

"I'll be fine, brother," Balthazar spoke softly, knowing the other angel's thoughts as clearly as though they were written on his face. Castiel never had been any good at hiding the emotions he wasn't supposed to have. "Go. I'll catch you later."

Castiel spared his brother one last look before he took to the skies. The tips of his obsidian wings wrapped his sibling in a quick embrace of comradery and strength before he was gone. Balthazar turned to the south, where the approaching cloud of black was almost upon him.

"Sorry, Cassie," he whispered, raising his blade and sparing a quick glance back at his injured wing.

-o-o-o-

Castiel pushed his brother's strife from his thoughts as he flew across forests and rocky mountain ranges in the blink of an eye. Balthazar could handle himself, and it would take a large number of demons to even hamper an angel, let alone take one down.

Instead, he focused on the soul that called to his grace, begging to be found even if its voice remained determinedly silent. Castiel touched down in the house the human's soul resonated from less than a minute after he had left his brother. The home was old, with stacks of books and artifacts of ancient, supernatural origins scattered here and there.

The home of a hunter, Castiel identified easily. Perhaps that explained the man asking for help from an angel that was listed little in scripture.

Voices drew him into the main room of the house, and Castiel's grace flared at the presence of a demon in the center of the room. She was safely contained within a devil's trap, and a human stood before her, gun trained on her human form.

Castiel stared in shock at the Colt, even as it fired on the demon and smote her being as succinctly as he himself could have. The man behind the special gun lowered it, a flash of anger crossing his face followed by a calm that any warrior who had lost soldiers in the field would understand.

The angel's grace reverberated with the man's soul, and Castiel stared, surprise coloring his features, at the man who had called out to him so many times in recent months.

He seemed…ordinary, really. A fine specimen of humanity, the angel supposed, but not what he had been expecting. Not that Castiel knew what he had been expecting. Perhaps someone…different.

The hunter crossed the room, unaware of the divine being watching him from another plane as he knelt beside the downed demon. Castiel had half a mind to stop him, but he could sense no demonic presence left in the young woman, or in the house at all.

He frowned, however, when he sensed something else. The angel tilted his head to the side, gaze roaming slowly through the room to settle on a doorway just past a desk and disheveled bookshelves. There was a door he could see beyond, partially cracked and leading to a set of stairs.

Castiel left behind the human who had prayed so fervently for him and descended those steps. There was something dark still residing within the house, but it was no demon. He found himself in a basement, navigating towers of boxes and more books until he came to a surprising sight. There was another room within this floor. It was made entirely of iron, a heavy door left open to reveal a room designed entirely around supernatural wards and traps. The angel stepped into the space after confirming no angelic warding was present, admiration flaring for the human that had built such an ingenious safe-room.

His thoughts, distracted by the clever space, stopped altogether at the sight of two humans, asleep on various furniture against one side of the circular room. Castiel frowned as the darkness flared again, and he took a step towards the sleeping men. He held his hand out over them both, faltering when his grace flared in repulsion at the youngest. There was evil in his blood, writhing with the same black essence as the demons who had attacked him and his brother moments ago.

Castiel drew back in horror, staring down at a boy tainted by demon blood. How it had gotten there, he did not know, but the infection was growing. It was spreading through his being and beginning to seep its way into the man's heart and soul. It would take him over if Castiel did not cleanse him of it now.

The angel reached his hand out to do just that, but the boy frowned in his sleep, head twitching to the side, showing signs of waking. The process of removing the taint, if he even could, would not be a pleasant one. Castiel paused long enough to consider the options, before he reached out for the human's mind. He would ensure he was properly asleep and would not wake to what the angel had to do.

He cast his grace out in search of the sleeping man's conscience. Castiel's features furled as he realized it was not where it should be. The boy's mind currently resided in the other human lying beside him. That was…unexpected. They were dream sharing. Castiel followed the trail of the younger man's conscience into that of his father's and found himself in a darkened factory in a world that did not exist, built by the power of a Baku.

The angel stared in open surprise at the pipes and walls around him. The hunter whose mind they were in was collapsed on the ground. The young man he had followed here was standing with an arm outstretched at the beast that created this place.

Baku was quite large for its kind, body bloated from the nightmares, hopes, and dreams of many humans. Castiel's gaze hardened on this creature who had clearly lost its way.

The dream beast was born of a god other than his Father, but he had never been intended to do harm. The Baku were peaceful and aided humans in their sleep by eating the various forms of darkness that so easily gripped their fragile minds. This one had gotten greedy.

Castiel gathered his grace, intending to strike the beast. He would purify it and collapse the dream. But before he could, the creature started screaming, his soul crying out in pain as chunks of the darkness he had consumed – and which had consumed him – were violently torn from his being.

The angel transferred a stunned and horrified gaze to the boy with the demon blood, who stood mere feet away. His hand stretched towards the beast, eyes closed in concentration and soul yearning to do good, despite the anger and fear vibrating throughout his body. The terrible darkness within him flared and grew as the boy sourced it for his purpose, trying to cleanse the beast in the most painful of ways.

The angel did not know if he intended such harm, but he had to stop it either way. This purification was cruel. And it was destroying more than its intended victim. The darkness that gave the boy such powers would consume him too if he continued.

Castiel turned to the beast, who writhed and screeched and begged for death in a language the human did not speak. The angel could listen to it no longer. He gathered his power and struck the Baku, smiting the poor creature with the might of Heaven and an explosion of white light.

-o-o-o-

The angel came back to his heavenly body with a deep breath and an ache in his grace he knew no injury was responsible for. The boy with the demon blood woke with a gasp and staggered upright out of the chair he had been asleep in. Panicked eyes sought for his father, who woke far slower. That human had been asleep much longer, the angel could tell, and was the intended victim of the Baku's greed.

Castiel turned to leave, pausing as the boy's soul flared in relief at the first words his father mumbled. The angel knew he should be repulsed by the evil flowing through the human's veins and the manner in which he had sought that power and applied it. But the man's soul swirled with love and hope and care in a way that only humans ever did, and Castiel could not bring himself to be as revolted as he should be.

Evil once more flickered on the edges of his senses, and Castiel turned his gaze and grace upward. The house began to shake, and he knew he was out of time. With a quick look back to the two humans to ensure they were well and truly free of the Baku's hold, followed with a periphery search of the first floor for the humans there as well, Castiel took to the sky as fast as he could before the hoard of demons could overtake the house.

They swarmed the structure as he burst through the roof, clipping at his wings and launching themselves after his quickly fleeing form.

-o-o-o-

There were more of them than there should be. The formless demons giving chase were not only too many in number for Hell's limited presence on Earth, but the swarm seemed no smaller than what had first attacked the hospital. Castiel prayed to his Father that Balthazar had been right about his terrible luck, that their persistence in coming after him and their undiminished numbers were not a sign of his brother's demise.

Castiel flew northwest until he hit the great mountain range that split North America. He turned north and sped ever faster into the wilderness of his Father's creation. The angel raced as fast as his wings could carry him until he sensed no human souls for many miles. He dove into the untamed forests beneath him and landed on the ground in dense woods.

The trees would hamper his own fighting, but the lack of openness would hinder the demons as well, and bottleneck their attempts to surround him from all sides. It was not a great place for battle, but it was better than a human settlement or an open field.

Castiel pulled his blade from his grace, the celestial alloy manifesting atom by atom until it settled in his hand as a comforting weight. The cries and screeches of the approaching hoard filtered through the trees. The great giants rustled and shuddered in the presence of evil, giving Castiel a warning he did not need, before screaming smoke descended through the canopy and was on him.

The Warrior of God cast all thoughts from his mind but those of battle. There were more demons than he had feared, and thoughts of Balthazar facing this alone were terribly hard to banish. But he focused on the fight, knowing he could not learn of his brother's fate if he perished in the forest today.

Demons fell beneath his blade, others smote beneath his terrible, divine wrath. But it was not nearly enough, and the smoke persisted from every side. Castiel was beginning to tire. Their numbers were fewer, but now the formless creatures were hanging back. Those that had attacked with malicious intent and little thought lay dead beneath the angel's feet, black essence soaking the earth. What remained were wiser. Older.

Castiel turned slowly in a circle, regarding each hovering cloud with a glare that dared them to attack. To see what he was worth.

A trill broke the air. One of the demons vibrated, smoke shaking along its wisps and edges. Another joined in, and soon after all remaining demons were screeching with vibrations. Castiel winced at the mounting battle cry, but refused to let it intimidate him. He raised his blade, locking eyes with the leader of the haunt.

A demon broke formation and charged him from the left. Castiel swept his arm to the side, intent to cut the creature down but already knowing it was a trap.

Lighting struck through the forest, striking the demon with the brilliance of God. Castiel shielded his gaze from the smiting as the demons shrieked in sudden fear. Angels descended from the trees, slamming into the ground. A full flight of vesseled warriors, twelve in total, quickly dispatched the remaining demons.

Castiel finished off the creature who floated, dumbfounded, beside him and had intended to end his life only seconds ago. It went down with a gargle and a fizzle. The angel lowered his blade to his side, turning to the flight commander with military discipline.

"Ishim," he greeted his brother with a dip of his head, recognizing the vessel he had once fought beside when he belonged to this unit. The commander did not return the gesture, staring down at the smaller angel with stoicism that bordered on disdain. Of course, Ishim had never much liked Castiel, especially once he had been awarded his own division of soldiers. The commander stowed his blade, and Castiel did the same.

"Castiel. Your presence is not authorized on Earth," he began with no preamble, gesturing to two of his angels. They flanked either side of Castiel but he put up no resistance. The angel had no intention of denying his actions.

"Yes. I will return with you to Heaven to await punishment for my disobedience," he answered by rote, unflinching in his duty. "But I did not travel alone. Balthazar was with me. We were separated and he was injured. We must find him and aid him in battle, need be."

The angel standing just behind Ishim on his left, in a vessel Castiel knew well, stepped forward. Her eyes were sympathetic where her superior's were cold. Benjamin presented Castiel an angel blade, regret coloring the grace behind her vessel's face. Castiel's chest swelled with grief, recognizing Balthazar's blade instantly and the grace dripping from its sharp edge.

"No," he whispered, accepting the weapon with numb fingers.

"Balthazar perished in battle. His blade was all that was left when we arrived," Ishim reported, tone never changing from the bored drawl. Castiel flinched at it, but buried the emotion down deep within his grace. It could be felt another time, when not faced with a reprimand and a garrison of his brothers who had likely saved his life, even if they could not save Balthazar's. "Perhaps it's as I thought, Castiel. You were not ready for your own command."

The words might have caused a flare of indignation and anger in the angel before. Castiel had earned his flight, and under the grueling and often cruel command of Ishim. But such words did not matter now. He barely heard them, staring at the blade of his fallen brother, missing the look of distaste Benjamin sent their superior on Castiel's behalf.

Balthazar was dead.

We should never have come down here.

"Come," Ishim ordered, turning and spreading his wings.

The angels on either side of Castiel took him by the arms, though there was no need. He followed willingly, more than deserving of whatever punishment awaited him.

-o-o-o-

Zachariah regarded the angel before him with distaste. Little upstart, really. But Castiel did not have a record of disobedience, at least not since he had come under the angel's command. He had always been quiet, removed from much of the Host due to his oddities. Unfortunately, most of the Host were still favorable enough towards him, despite those idiosyncrasies. Zachariah didn't much care for him, but, then, he didn't much think of him, either. He was an ant in the farm digging what tunnels he was told to dig.

Unfortunately, his little flare of rebellion, while a relatively minor infraction in any other decade, could all but bring their carefully laid plans to a grinding halt. Things would be so much simpler for the higher ups if Heaven could play ignorant to the machinations of Hell as it stirred up the Apocalypse.

Now, now, Zachariah was going to have to reason out, in front of his men, why a swarm of demons were organized on Earth rather than milling about, causing individual, minor mayhem that Heaven didn't give a shit about.

"There were many," Castiel reported as stoically as the emotion-prone angel was able. He stood, stiff and formal, in the older angel's office. Zachariah could tell he was grieving the loss of his companion and was appeased some, knowing he could use that to his advantage. "More than should be present on Earth. I believe the forces of Hell are up to something."

Zachariah stood from his desk, irritation flaring at the angel's annoyingly accurate words spoken in front of multiple angels that did not need to know such things. "It is not your place to speculate on the movements of the enemy, Castiel."

The angel dipped his head in acknowledgement, but something about it set Zachariah's teeth on edge. Something about Castiel always did, though he'd yet to pinpoint just what that was.

"One of the Host is dead because of your little road trip." The angel flinched, and Zachariah decided to twist the knife to drive his point home. "Had you not endangered your brother, all of your brothers, Balthazar would still be alive."

Castiel's gaze dropped away from his superior, properly chastised. The guilt flowing off him was practically palpable. Perhaps it was the angel's flair for emotion that was the root of Zachariah's dislike.

He settled back at his desk, steepling his hands as he regarded the little upstart. Zachariah considered further punishment – perhaps something to help wipe those nasty emotions out of the soldier once and for all. But it was a tad extreme for a minor offense, and there were two angels in the room companionable to Castiel in ways that could rouse discussion among the masses should he be punished too unfairly.

"You will be demoted, for the time being, to second in command of your flight," Zachariah informed him nonchalantly. "Uriel will lead the unit in your stead."

Castiel dipped his head once more. Nothing in the shifting colors of his grace or the language of his being spoke in protest, and Zachariah was all the more pleased for it. Let the little upstart wallow.

"You will report to Malachi to show him this portal you traveled through and it will be sealed." The angel paused, pursing his lips in thought. "And any others you are aware of."

The angel shook his head in response. "I know only of the one we used. Balthazar was the one who found it."

Which meant he would need to order his men to find any other holes in their defenses and patch those up. When the truth came to light, there would be some in the Host who would surely disagree with Heaven's decision. When that happened, they needed to be locked up tight. Perhaps it was fortuitous that Balthazar had gotten himself killed. He had inadvertently alerted them to a potential security risk. He'd also been on Zachariah's list of angels likely to rebel when the time came.

"Dismissed."

"Sir."

Zachariah raised a brow in the angel's direction when he didn't immediately leave. Had his dismissal been unclear, in some way, or was the angel really just itching for more punishment?

"The demons?"

The lead angel frowned in general confusion. When Castiel didn't say anything more, Zachariah waved the question away for the useless inquiry it was. "They were dealt with. End of story."

"But their numbers-"

"Are not your concern," Zachariah reiterated through clenched teeth, incredulous at the angel still questioning his orders. Perhaps he did need to be reeducated after all. "The only reason demons showed up in the first place was because you and Balthazar decided to take a stroll downstairs. Since that's not happening again anytime soon, problem solved! Unless you plan to get another of your brother's killed?"

The little angel paled horribly, losing all colors across his being. He dipped his head, the guilt that flooded across him in the absence of any other emotion was sadistically rewarding for Zachariah.

"Dismissed, Castiel."

The angel bowed swiftly to his superior and left the room with two attending soldiers. Zachariah watched him leave, something about the little upstart bothering him even worse, now.

"Ramael." He beckoned the angel standing beside his desk, nothing more than a paper pusher, really, but one that could be easily cajoled into loyalty and obedience. He liked that in an angel. "Where was Castiel picked up?"

Ramael straightened to attention and glanced down at the stack of forms he was holding, running a finger along the report. "The Northern Territories of Canada. North American continent. He was a far distance from any human civilization, in a place called the Tlicho Lands. Location: sixty three point three eight nine degrees latitude by-"

Zachariah waved him into silence, five of his six faces clearly telling the subordinate to shut up. He stared at the closed doors of his office the little upstart had passed through less than a minute ago. An unpleasant thought was mixing with that annoyed feeling Castiel always caused in him.

"And where are the Winchesters now?"

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Castiel sat on the park bench in Arthur Staten's heaven, but he could not bring himself to enjoy the beauty and splendor of the man's world today. The loss of his brother stung more than any wound, and the guilt of his death ran deep.

He had not told Zachariah the reason for their disobedience in the first place, because his superior had not asked. Part of Castiel wondered if that, too, was disobedience. An omission of the truth was not the same as lying, but it could be argued a crime all its own.

Still, the matter seemed behind them, and Castiel tried to leave it there. It was difficult, as his mind did not seem to be in tune with his grace. Despite great efforts to move on from the tragedy of Balthazar, however honorable his death had been in battle, Castiel could not stop his mind from lingering. Questioning.

There were too many things not fitting into place. The number of demons present in one location, the swarm that acted more like bees in defense of a hive than demons on the hunt, the swiftness with which they were on him and Balthazar, and then again on him. It was like they had been waiting – ready – for the angels.

Which made no sense, given that he and Balthazar had not premeditated their trip to Earth before that day. So if not the two of them specifically, were the demons expecting angels in general?

Why would hell spawn be organized on Earth, awaiting Heaven's response?

Something dark and ugly rooted itself in Castiel's lower torso. He did not know what it was, and part of him did not want to know what it was, but he knew it was nothing good.

Obey.

That quiet, compelling voice which often spoke to him when he sought revelation had returned some days ago. It usually found him in places like Arthur's park, when he sat in the silence of a human's mind and looked for peace. Unless in the presence of Balthazar. It never had much to say, then. His grace ached at the realization that his brother would never again be there to quiet the voice that demanded obedience and silenced his questioning.

But not listening to it is what got his brother killed in the first place.

Resolve filled Castiel like a leaden weight and he stood from the bench. He pushed his worries and doubts, the ugly knots in his torso and mind, and the fragmented thoughts of disobedience far, far away from him. If the human prayed again, he vowed not to hear his pleas, not to feel the curiosity, or answer the yearning call to come to his aid.

He was an Angel of the Lord. A Warrior of God.

He served Heaven. He did not serve man.

The angel left the Arthur's paradise to return to his brothers and resume his heavenly duties.

Chapter Text

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Season 1: Interlude II

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

For the first time in the forty eight years he had spent on Earth, the last thirty four of which he had searched tirelessly and often fruitlessly for Lucifer's true vessel, Azazel wished he could be back in Hell. The pit was not a pleasant place, that was certain, and the Prince of Hell was no true fan of it. Not the darkness of its deepest layers, or the heat of hellfire, or the screams of the damned. Azazel held no love of his birthplace, only a love for Lucifer.

It was for his true Father, the angel who had given him a second birth, that he clawed his way through the depths of the damned to rise on Earth in search of him. He had tried the harder way – to burrow through level after level of Hell's infinite reaches in search of the cage. But he had wasted centuries looking and never come close.

Now, staring at his ruined arm, he wished to be surrounded by hellfire once more. Hell had a way of both amplifying and nulling pain. It was a land of paradoxes, and Azazel desired that most right now. Lilith could possibly heal the wretched limb without the power of a soul deal, or at the least lessen the annoying hindrance it had become. Crowley, at the very least least, would be able to coerce some human sucker into a deal strong enough to fix the blasted thing.

Azazel had considered summoning him for just such a purpose several times since he had let the Winchesters out of his grasp.

It would have to wait, however. He would not waste the time and effort spent capturing the boys or luring John in just to ease a nuisance. The arm could wait. His demon had done as commanded, landing all three Winchesters in the nearest hospital almost the moment they'd fled from his grasp. The eldest son was lying in a coma on life support, unlikely to live much longer.

John would sell his soul to save him, Azazel was sure of it. He just needed to be patient. And, in case the hunter did not summon him directly, Crowley and his crossroad demons needed to be free to make the deal.

So, here Azazel was, forced to communicate with Lucifer's Firstborn through a chalice of blood once more. The situation may be sparing him some unpleasantness, actually, given Lilith's ungodly shrieks coming through the blood. Hers were not the only screams either, hence the unpleasantness he was likely being spared. She was pissed, and rightly so, given Azazel had just relayed that Dean Winchester was walking around with a little chunk of angel in his chest.

He was somewhat remiss to not be witness to the expression on her face, though. Lilith threw a bitch fit like no other, and it could be quite entertaining if you were not one of her intended targets. Another demon screamed for mercy through the blood, an unfortunate causality of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Is he a vessel already?" Once the cries had died out, leaving the blood silent but for her heavy breaths of exertion and rage, she managed to calm enough to speak with him.

"Nope," Azazel popped the last consonant. "Just a sliver of grace snuggled right up to that righteous soul of his."

No wonder his daughter had been ousted when she kissed him. His blood had been foul: completely unbearable, tainted with that righteous poison, created by the smallest of angelic influences. With an angel's grace sitting pretty in his chest, Azazel had no doubt Dean truly had tasted sulfur on her tongue.

"How the hell does an angel's grace get in a human?"

The words were spat with such disgust and fury it brought a lazy smile to Azazel's face. He shrugged regardless, not that Hell's Princess could see the gesture. She'd probably hear it in his words, though. "Not easily, that's for sure. I didn't think the cloud hoppers were that creative. They've been monitoring their vessel this whole time without ever leaving the pearly gates. Feeding him information. It's ingenious, really."

It was also damn close to what they had been planning for Sam. Which was infuriating, even if one could respect an opponent's cleverness.

"And pumping him up while they're at it!" Lilith screamed, pointing out that other tidbit Heaven was copying them on. Azazel wasn't sure if who in the lead, though. If he'd gotten Sammy to drink that last container of blood, they'd surely be winning the mini game.

It rankled him that he hadn't managed it, but the Prince of Hell was nothing if not patient, and he knew they had time yet.

But if the angels were introducing bits of grace into Dean Winchester over time, he was going to be just as powerful an archangel vessel as Sam would be once he reached his peak on demon blood. So much for their little one-upper plan. Heaven and Hell were back on even footing for now.

"It doesn't seem to be doing much in the way of protecting him," Azazel reasoned out loud. A little silver lining, perhaps. "It's not enough grace to heal him when injured or shield him from attack. But if they start doing some more cloud-seeding before we can get to him…"

"They'll interfere with our plans, and we'll be fucked." Lilith always did have a way with words. "We're going to have to change it. All of it. From now on, our backup plans will need backup plans."

"What of the prophet?" The Prince of Hell idly picked at the dead flesh on his arm, peeling away a chunk of blackened skin like a discarded scale. "Did Crowley do as I asked?"

"Yes. For a demon who never shuts up about his numerous connections, he sure is slow at getting the simplest of information." The young voice was pouting and seething at the same time now. "He has a man watching the prophet, but there's an archangel tied to his ass. So even if he is helping the Winchesters, there's nothing we can do to stop it."

"For now." Azazel filed the information away, intent to speak more in depth with Crowley once John was secure in Alistair's capable hands. ""We'll start with the Hell Gate. We can't move forward with the plan until we get you topside, anyway."

The silence of the slowly bubbling blood was agreement enough from the Princess. After a moment, she asked, much more reasonably than any previous tone so far in the conversation, "What are we going to do about the angels?"

"Angel," Azazel corrected, eyes going unfocused as he thought back to that explosive power that activated the second his twisted essence made contact with the celestial purity. Angels and demons really weren't meant to mix. It had hurt like hell, for them both he figured. The boy was lucky to have survived it at all, but those were angels for you. Holier than thou, self-righteous bags of dicks. No better than demons; they just thought they were. Which, in the Prince of Hell's humble opinion, made them far worse. "It's only the one, and not even that. An infinitesimal percentage of an angel."

"If it's guarding Dean Winchester, one percent or one hundred doesn't make a difference. We'll never get his soul in Hell."

"Oh yes, we will." He was not prepared to give up all their years of planning and careful execution because one unpredicted chunk of grace now stood in their path. "One angel can be dealt with; we'll find a way. Until then…I think if Heaven wants to play dirty, it's only fair we join their game."

The silence was a curious one this time, and though Lilith's response was drawled, it was also full of the scaling malice that was their birthright. "What did you have in mind?"

"I think we need to get Sam a little guardian of his own. Turnabout is fair play, and all that."

"A demon?" Lilith sounded thrilled, the excitement in her voice already suggesting she had the perfect one in mind. "I have a girl for the job. I've been grooming her for this for decades."

"No," Azazel interrupted before she could get going. Lilith was excellent at cultivating the cream of the crop of demonhood. Truly, she had a gift for it, which is likely what Lucifer had first seen in her thousands of years ago. But hell-spawn was not what they needed to win this game. Not yet, anyway. "The grace in Dean's chest will spot a demon a mile away. Save your girl, we'll need her still."

"If not a demon, then what? A human? They'll never stay loyal. Even a soul deal won't be enough leverage to assure their cooperation."