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Chapter Text

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Light thrust its way out of the circle of Lilith's blood. Noise filled the room and Dean recognized it as the voice of an angel—ear-piercingly inhuman. "What the hell?"

"He's coming," Sam said. He clutched Dean's jacket hard enough to pull him off balance.

"Lucifer?" Not that he had any doubt but, Jesus fuck, he wanted to be wrong.

"Yes. Lucifer." Even Castiel's voice was strained. "We must go." The angel put fingers on their heads, and as much as the sensation of being transported was nauseatingly weird, Dean couldn't help but pray to be engulfed by it. They needed to get out of here right-the-fuck-now.

Nothing happened except a short, sharp jerk: like that moment of reaching the top of a swing's arc.

"The hell?"

"Lucifer," Castiel answered. "He senses Sam's presence and is… holding onto him. I do not have the power to pull Sam away."

"Why? I've already done what they wanted." A world of grief and shame lived in his voice, easily heard over the noise of Lucifer's arrival.

"You are also his vessel."

"What?" "No!" Their voices overlapped, out of sync, even now. Dean's voice was outraged. Sam's was filled with despair.

Castiel's gaze slid away from theirs and Dean recognized the shame in that gesture. "I'm sorry, Sam. I should have acted sooner." The angel lifted his head, finally meeting Sam's eyes squarely; accepting responsibility for what he hadn't done… and for what he had.

Sam swallowed his nerves. "It's okay." He nodded in short jerks. "You two go—while you can."

"Fuck that," Dean said. "We're all getting out of here." He ran for the door but it slammed shut as he reached it. He bent to pick up the stand he'd used to break in earlier but the noise was growing in intensity and it was starting to hurt. He managed one feeble swing before he had to drop the stand to cover his ears.

"Cas," he heard Sam order, "Get Dean out of here!"

He spun away from the door, nearly losing his balance as the wind increased in power. His brother was right beside him. "Sam, no!" he shouted.

Sam ignored him, leaning toward the angel, yelling in his ear, as Lucifer's 'voice' grew in strength. "You get him out of here and make sure he's safe from… from angels and demons and all this shit!" Sam's face was fierce and bleak and pleading. "You can do that for me!"

"Sam, no!" Dean demanded.

It was as if he hadn't even spoken. Cas looked at Sam and nodded solemnly. Dean doubled over from the shards of sound being driven into his body but it didn't stop him from reaching Sam's side and grabbing his brother's jacket. "Sam!" he pleaded, begged.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry!" Wind whipped Sam's too-long hair around his head. He ignored it and looked at Dean with fear but no hesitation, pain but no doubt.

"No," Dean protested but his voice was quiet, without power. He knew that stubborn look. Too well. Even if Sam could have heard him, he wouldn't have listened.

"You go with Cas, someplace safe, where you can have that apple pie life you want so much." Sam shook him. "You do that for me, and you don't look back!"

"Sam…"

Sam didn't say anything else, just looked at Castiel and firmed his jaw.

Dean didn't even see Cas move; his fingers were just suddenly there, on his head, dragging him away from his brother. The last thing he saw was Sam turning to face the creature that wanted to consume him. His final thought was 'failed, failed, failed'.

When the world went black he hoped it was because he was dead too.

He should've known he wouldn't be that lucky.

Chapter Text

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Mom is arguing with Dad again. They're talking low but Sam can hear them; doesn't need to try really, because the only thing they'll be talking about is Dean: Dean's disappearance, Dean's behavior, what they will do when he gets home (Dad's question). What will they do if he doesn't—or can't (Mom's fear).

Dean. Dean. Dean.

Dean had gone out to the river for a grad party—not that he'd actually graduated. It would take him at least another year and that was if he actually studied and, you know, did his homework (fat chance). But most of his friends had scraped a pass and they'd invited him along. A party at the river meant girls and booze, and probably street drugs, so no one was surprised when Dean didn't come home right away.

That night, Sam dreamed of water, cold and deep and dark and welcoming…

It was a vivid dream, so haunting that he remembered it perfectly when he woke up.

On the second day, Dad assumed his oldest was staying with one of his skeevy friends getting wasted. He'd growled at everybody because that was usually followed by Dean missing work and this week it meant John would have to leave the shop two men down while he went to Kansas City to attend the bio-diesel refresher course he'd had scheduled for ages.

When Dean (predictably) didn't show up for work on the third day, Dad was pissed and Mom was worried and they argued over the phone about calling in the police—Mom for a missing persons report and Dad to haul his fucking ass back home so John could boot it out properly. Then Sam heard that Sheena Jarvis was missing too. Sheena was one of the girls his brother banged on a regular basis. For her to be missing at the same time as Dean probably meant they were together. Mom worried they were doing something stupid, like getting married in Vegas. Dad hoped they were doing something smart, like getting an abortion.

Sam remembered his dream and wondered.

On day four, Sam had another dream. This time there were wings and bright lights and a horrible noise and white, white, white blankness.

Day six and Sheena showed up at her house. Married to Billy Crannick. They stopped long enough to pack up their shit and then they hit the road to California where Sheena was going to be big star. (Yeah right.)

Sheena's mom had called to tell them that Dean hadn't been with them, and didn't know where he was (didn't care either, from the sounds of it) so Mom and Dad had argued about calling in the cops once again. Dad was still sure that Dean would show up with one hell of a hangover but Mom… Mom was freaking. Last night, before Dad got back from the course, she'd taken out Dad's old guns and cleaned them. She only did that when Dad wasn't around and she was super-ultra worried. Mom could be a little over-protective.

The next night his dreams were of cold, ice, emptiness. He was so alone… When he woke up his pillow was wet and his eyelashes were crusted together. Stupid fucking dreams.

Now, it's the seventh day, Saturday, and Sam's in the living room where he's supposed to be writing his final history paper. He's supposed to be exploring how the US would be different if Sirhan Sirhan had actually managed to assassinate RFK. Who would've become president? How would that have affected domestic and external policies? How long would they have remained in Vietnam and Cambodia? Would marijuana products still be illegal? Would capital punishment still be handed out as punishment? Would America still have instituted universal health care? Would people be living on the moon?

Usually he liked thinking about stuff like that, it's interesting, but now he can't concentrate on it at all! He might as well speculate on what the End of Days would look like because Dad's back and he and Mom are holding their low-toned 'discussions' that Sam can hear no matter where he sits.

He hates it when his parents fight and they're doing it more and more frequently, usually over Dean. Dad wants to force Dean into a military school or even into the actual Marines: turn him into a soldier, teach him some discipline. Mom ixnays that idea consistently and vehemently, and this time's no different. Dad always takes it as some kind of slight against his military service. Mom swears it isn't and Sam believes her, but Dad's never seen her taking apart his guns and reassembling them like a pro.

An especially loud exchange has him hunching so far over his work book that he almost doesn't hear the knock on the door, a simple tap-tap-tap. It comes again, a little louder.

Maybe it's Denise Murchison from next door, Sam thinks hopefully. If it's her then his parents will have to stop fighting, have to stop discussing it all together because Ms. Murchison's interest in life begins and ends with her own. She'll talk for hours about her woes and the problems she's having with her kids, her kids' teachers, her kids' fathers, and the latest co-worker / store / government agency to screw her over. Her attitude towards the latest Dean-drama is 'I always knew that boy would come to a bad end' that Sam had overheard her say to Mr. Boothe one house over.

He hopes it's her because, not only will his parents have to stop fighting, she always brings cookies. Win all around.

He hops up. "I've got it!" He nearly trips over his feet on the way to the door. Growth spurt, Mom said, but it seems the only thing growing are Sam's feet. Well, and his inability to coordinate them.

He doesn't bother checking the peephole, just flings the door open. And there is Dean. Standing on the door like a storm-wrecked stranger, silent and mussed and worn thin. His eyes are huge, pupils blown. At first Sam thinks it's because Dean's still stoned (it would explain why he didn't just walk into his own house) but then Dean looks at him—looks right at him—and there's such despair and grief and an aching emptiness that Sam's breath catches and his eyes sting.

"Sammy?"

It isn't Dean's voice. Dean's voice is loud, and obnoxious, and crass. This voice is tentative, broken and on the verge of… something.

"It's Sam, jerk-face." Sam snaps, automatically. It helps to re-balance him because Dean never sounds tentative or broken or anything but a cocky asshole. "Where the hell you been? Mom was about to call the cops."

Dean doesn't react the way he should. He doesn't smirk or brag or pose, or do any of the other things he always does to show he doesn't care. "Mom… Mom's here?"

"Du-uh," Sam rolls his eyes. "That must've been some good shit you smoked, or did you inject it this time?"

Dean frowns then glances down at his tattooed left arm as if Sam has just explained something. "I'm not stoned."

"Of course not. That's why you knocked on the door of your own house and why you're standing at the door looking as if you've never seen it before." Sam let the sarcasm drip, safe in the knowledge that Dean can't do anything truly painful to him when both Mom and Dad are down the hall.

He needn't have worried; Dean doesn't do anything. Nothing he's supposed to, anyway. He gives a soft, sad snort and runs a hand over his face. And are those tears? Sam blinks. No way. He leans forward for a better look but Dean turns away to hide his face. What the hell is going on, he wonders. Dean never gets emotional, not without pharmaceuticals. Sam glances at Dean's hand. Sure enough, it's trembling.

Dean turns back and looks past Sam into what he can see of the entryway. He still makes no effort to come in though. "Is Dad... Is Dad here?"

Sam doesn't have to answer because, just then Dad bellows 'Who's at the door, Sam?" right before he comes down the hall from the kitchen.

"You are in such deep shit," Sam mutters to his brother before throwing the door wide. "It's Dean, Dad. The Prodigal Son returned." Dad stops. He sweeps one all-encompassing glance over his oldest boy and his gaze hardens as he sees no injuries, no excuses.

Dean's eyes get larger, wider, more stunned, if that's possible, but not rebellious, not defensive and not carefully blank.

"Dean." John's voice is an accusation.

"Hey Dad," Dean says in response and his voice breaks. He looks behind his father and Sam watches him swallow, and swallow again. It's like Dean's seeing a ghost, Sam thinks. He's so pale he'd probably glow in the dark.

"Mom?" he whispers. He's swaying on his feet. "I'm… I guess I'm home."

And then he collapses on the step and cries and cries.

---

Mom's talking hospital. Dad's talking rehab. Sam is staring at his delinquent brother who hasn't given a shit about anybody but himself for years. He's trying to reconcile that asshole with the older brother who'd had a complete breakdown on the stoop just a few hours ago, but he can't. It does not compute.

"Sammy?" Dean whimpers helplessly. "Sam…"

He's been doing that off and on since they brought him up here. Saying Sam's name as if it hurts and it's so fucked up. Sam started by ignoring it, followed by wondering if it was a trick, then he moved to resisting it, but he can't even do that anymore. He moves to the side of the bed. "I'm here, Dean."

He isn't sure if Dean can even hear him, since his eyes don't open, but he throws out his hand.

Sam instinctively grabs it. Dean clutches painfully hard. "Say 'no', Sam," he mutters. "Can't take… 's long as you say 'no'."

Sam laughs, bitterly. "You are such a hypocrite, Dean."

Dean's eyes finally open. "Sammy?"

"It's Sam, douche-wad. And I can't believe you're lecturing me about drugs. You. Of all people."

"I… what?" Dean blinks, looking absolutely bewildered.

"Besides you don't have to worry about me. I ain't touching the stuff. Forget D.A.R.E. You're all the warning I need." He tries to tug his hand away but Dean's grip tightens.

Dean blinks some more. "N' drugs," he slurs. "Angel."

"Angel? Is that some new chemical thing your friends gave you? Did you even ask what it would do to you before you took it?"

"Not drugs."

He sounds so outraged that Sam takes a mental step back to rethink. It's possible (but not likely) that Dean didn't knowingly use any of this Angel shit, but given the bunch of pathetic criminal types he usually hangs out with, it's not improbable that one of them might have laced Dean's marijuana with it. Not that it's legal for Dean to be smoking pot, he isn't twenty-one yet, but everybody knows it happens. Sam knows Dean has raided their dad's stash a few times and Dad rarely calls him on it. It's this unspoken agreement between them: as long as Dean isn't greedy, Dad doesn't rag on him for stealing the occasional joint.

"Not drugs," Dean repeats, his voice firmer than before. "A fucking angel." He raises his free hand to cover his face and Sam wonders if he's going to start crying again—another thing that's just wrong about this Dean. He doesn't though. Instead, after a moment, he runs his fingers over his face, his nose, his cheekbones, his brow, like Sam has seen blind people do when they're trying to 'see' a person.

"So you're… thirteen?"

Sam rips his hand away. "Fourteen, douche. Although, I shouldn't be surprised that you don't remember my age considering you didn't even remember my birthday."

Dean frowns at him. There's that look in his eyes again, the one that is lost and scared and completely confused. "I did… I couldn't have."

"You went to that stupid party instead, Dean, so yeah, you forgot." It still hurts a little. Dean had talked about taking him to Kansas City for the day, just the two of them. Not that he'd let himself believe it, not really. Sam wasn't that stupid.

"Shit, Sam…sucks."

"Yeah, you do." Sam waits for Dean's inevitable promise to make it up to him, to do better next time, all the usual 'feel good' lies that his brother always tells him when he's behaved like a jerk. Nothing. Dean just stares up at the ceiling looking devastated, and Sam gets the feeling that maybe someone had died at the grad party. He hasn't heard anything, but he doesn't exactly keep track of Dean's… friends.

"Is everything okay?" he forces himself to ask knowing that Dean will likely make fun of him for showing concern.

However, Dean doesn't shrug off the question, or mock Sam for asking it. He gives this choked off laugh that doesn't sound like him at all. "No, nothing's okay."

Another thought occurs to Sam. "Is it Sheena?" He asks tentatively because it never seemed to him that Dean felt anything special for her, but maybe he was wrong. "Is it because she took off with Billy?"

For his pains, Dean looks at him as if he's the one who's nuts. "Who?"

So, they're back to drugs.

Sam has no patience for talking Dean out from a bad trip, not anymore—not ever, really, although he's done it—reminding Dean of where they are, who they are, what day it is. It's like Sam's the big brother and he hates it! He grinds his teeth for a second before spitting out the basic facts. "Okay, so, it's Saturday. The grad party was a week ago. You didn't come home and you didn't call. Dad's pissed and Mom's freaked—"

"She's not the only one," Dean mutters almost too low to be heard.

"—and I've got better things to do than talk you down from whatever shit you inhaled or injected or ingested." He stands up. "You may want to eat some real food. You look like a fucking ghost."

For some weird reason, Dean finally laughs. It's filled with blades and spines and sharp painful things, and Sam kind of wishes he could un-hear it.

---

Sam goes back to his studying. There are tentative footsteps upstairs heading first one way then the other in the hall. Then there's the sound of the toilet flushing and the water going. Dad comes into the front room while Dean's in the shower. He perches on the edge of his recliner and leans forward, hands gripping each other tight. Dad clears his throat and says, "So he's awake."

Great grasp of the obvious, Sam thinks but doesn't say. "Yeah, a bit ago."

"Did he say anything," Dad asks. "About what happened, or where the hell he's been for a week?"

"Not really," Sam hedges. No way is he telling Dad that Dean probably used some new street drug. Dean's mostly a jerk, but Sam still can't rat him out to the parents. Even so, he has to offer something. "He seemed pretty upset."

"Is it because of that Sheena girl?" Dad never liked Sheena. Not as much as he liked Barb Connelly who figured out in seventh grade which way Dean was headed and was smart enough to give him up.

"I dunno, Dad. You'll have to ask him when he comes downstairs."

Dad huffs but lets it go. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, completely ignoring the fact that Sam's studying. At least he keeps it quiet since it's baseball and Dad never listens to the play-by-play for baseball. "The game doesn't need the noise," he'd say. "It's enough to just watch."

Yeah, his dad's a baseball geek. He'd always wanted his sons to play, hoped they'd have that magical talent that would take them to the majors. Dean had been good, naturally athletic, but not enough to satisfy their dad and all the lectures and pep talks hadn't been able to give him that extra gift. At some point, Dean had stopped trying; at baseball, at school, at life, and Sam? Sam learned from watching Dean. He took up soccer, a game of which Dad had little knowledge and less interest.

In this case, though, Sam thinks Dad keeps it down because he's waiting for Dean to come downstairs, so he can pounce on him and ream him out. Then Dean will yell back, and Dad will start cursing, and Mom will try to get them both to settle down. Sam will either be upstairs in his room or out into the old tree-house in the back avoiding all the drama.

At least, that's the way it usually goes in Casa Winchester. This time… Sam's not so sure.

It takes longer than it should for the water to shut off upstairs, like Dean's scrubbing every piece of skin, twice, but finally the noise stops. The floor creaks as his brother moves around and Sam realizes he's been listening for that with far more attention than he's been reading his textbook. He slaps the book closed in disgust and asks his dad for the score.

"What?"

"The score," he repeats. "What's the score?"

"Um…" Dad fixes his gaze on the TV, and Sam realizes that he doesn't know. He's been paying as much attention to the game as Sam's been to his reading.

They listen in tense anticipation as Dean's footsteps take him back to his room. The drawers in his dresser screech like they always do when he's getting dressed. From the noise, he must open every drawer a couple times each. Then it's quiet until he steps on the top stair. It squeaks the way it always does and Dad's out of his chair and moving toward the staircase. Sam sees Mom standing in the kitchen, arms anxiously folded over her stomach. He can see she wants to approach, but she had obviously agreed to let Dad handle the preliminaries.

"Dean, we need to talk." It's Dad's don't-fuck-with-me voice that he only uses when he's ultra-serious. He used it on Dean when he smashed the Impala trying to street race, and again when he'd gotten arrested for sneaking into a bar and starting a fight.

Dean stops on the stairs, body tense enough to play notes off of. "Yes sir," he says and Sam feels his jaw drop.

Holy shit. His brother's been taken over by aliens. Or alien, singular, because that's all that would be needed to turn him into a different person. A polite person. Who calls Dad 'sir'.

Dad doesn't know how to take it either. For a second he's frozen in place then he waves Dean into the dining room, making him enter first so that he can't escape out the front door. Sam knows Dad will go to the head of the table and either sit in the chair or stand behind it and grip the back. He'll make Dean stand with his back to the entrance, vulnerable to any entering threat—power position it's called.

Sam looks at his mom. She looks at him. Together they move to the stairs and sit. They'll be able to hear perfectly from here.

"Where were you the past week, Dean?"

"I—" There's long pause. Sam can hear the hall clock ticking. "I don't actually know. It was… dark. For a long time, then I woke up at a river."

Beside him, Mom jumps up, and he can hear Dad moving from behind his chair. "You were abducted?"

"I… yeah," It's almost a laugh, but too close to a sob to hold any humor. "Yeah. I didn't want to go."

That's it. Mom's moving into the dining room. "Oh, Honey, are you alright?"

"Are you hurt?" Dad demands. "Do we need to take you to a hospital? Get you tested?"

Sam's standing in the entryway, looking in. Righteous anger has been replaced by parental worry, and John and Mary are huddled around their oldest like circled wagons. All he can think is that Dean's picked a great tactic to get out of the shit-hole he'd dug for himself. What parent wouldn't go all gooey when faced with the fear that some sick perv had kidnapped and raped their child?

"I'm not… I wasn't raped," Dean protests, and for the first time, his expression isn't one of anguished bewilderment but of embarrassed outrage. Nice touch.

"But you were drugged." Dad's peering into Dean's eyes intently, looking for any lingering signs. Dean stands there and lets him do it, too. He doesn't jerk his chin away, doesn't swear at him, doesn't make any of his usual responses. He just stands loose and ready while they look at him and touch him, checking for hidden injuries.

"I don't know," Dean repeats jaw tight, eyes clouded. "I don't know what happened."

Sam knows he's lying.

---

That night, Sam's dream isn't of being formless and alone in a light nothingness. That night he has a body and it's being pulled apart from the inside.

His ribs are trying to break through his skin and he can feel the blood, warm and thick, pouring out of him. He tries to move but he can't; he's pinned against a wall. Dad is there, whispering at him; saying nasty hurtful things. Except it's not his dad because Dad never looked so rough, unkempt, and cruel, and Dad never had yellow eyes. The thing-that-isn't-Dad steps away and there's the sound of a gunshot, the sound of a body falling, and he knows it's Dad-not-Dad. He screams, but it's silent, and then he's falling, finally falling, sliding down the wall into more pain that's black. Then it's a void.

If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him…

He wakes up with a jerk. He presses a hand to his chest. His heart's thundering but there's no pain, no blood that he can feel. Suddenly, he doesn't trust his hand to tell him the truth, so he turns on the light and lifts the sheets. He needs to see.

There's nothing, not a scratch.

If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him…

He shivers though it's not cold. It's probably the sweat evaporating, his logical mind suggests. Sam allows himself to believe it. He takes lots of deep breaths, thinks soothing thoughts of bunnies and mathematical patterns and sunshine on his face, until his heart-rate is back to normal and he doesn't feel like he's going to puke.

He glances at the clock: 02:34. Too early to get out of bed, he thinks. He reaches out a hand to turn off the light—

If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him…

Screw it. He leaves the light on and sleeps at the surface of his mind for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

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Sunday is remarkably quiet. Dad goes to work at the shop, needing to catch up on the work that wasn't done when Dean was missing. Dean offered to go with him—actually offered, of his own free will, to work on a weekend—but Dad had lifted his son's trembling hand and given him the day off. Instead of heading out to be with his friends, Dean had sat in the kitchen just looking around. He'd wandered down the hall, into the sitting room, looking at the pictures on the bookshelf. Sam watched, when it wasn't obvious, and he swore he saw Dean blink away tears when he picked up that awful Christmas photo Dad adored because it was so bad. Everyone was wearing matching sweaters... gross!

It was like Dean had never seen their stuff before, or maybe it was that he'd thought he'd never see it again…

But Sam was sure Dean knew exactly what had happened to him during the past week—at some level he knew. If he hadn't been kidnapped and raped (and Sam believed him on that) something else catastrophic had happened. The thought comes back to him that maybe someone died at the party. This quickly morphs into maybe he and his loser-stoner friends had killed someone?

He can't get the idea out of his mind.

It's a logical explanation for what he's seeing. Guilt makes people emotional, right?

Thanks to their Mom's business, they have internet access so, using research for his science project as an excuse, he gets her to let him use her computer. He soothes himself that it's not a total lie because he does look up quotes to use in his report on the Phoenix Lights. That part takes all of ten minutes. Then he spends the next two hours looking up information on local deaths from the past week. One accident with fatalities sounded promising (drunk driving) but the culprit was a middle-aged tax lawyer who'd had one too many martinis after work—not exactly Dean's usual companion. Two homicides (robbery at an ANT and a drunken bar fight), and one natural causes (old lady at home) are the only other deaths he finds. He looks up more details about the robbery since turning over an Alcohol, Narcotics & Tobacco depot would be Dean's style, but the robbers had been idiots and had locked the keys in their car with all their ID in the glove box. Not that Dean's friends wouldn't do something like that, just that, in this case, they hadn't. Cops had already arrested the two morons.

Sam sighed. No easy answers then, unless the mind and personality altering drug scenario is the correct one.

He decides to go back to watching his brother surreptitiously, but Dean's not upstairs. He's not in the kitchen or watching TV in the front room. He's pretty sure Dean didn't go out but he checks the deck and the backyard anyway. No sign. He goes back through the house. Nothing. Finally, he thinks of going downstairs, but there's nothing down there but the laundry room and Dad's gym and they're not exactly prime Dean hang-out locations. Still, Sam thinks, it's always the last place you look… and that's exactly where Dean is: in Dad's gym watching the workout tape and lifting the free weights with focused determination.

Dean doesn't do workouts.

Okay, yeah, he'll do push-ups and sit-ups because biceps and abs are a pick-up artist's best friends, but Dean doesn't do 'focused determination' in anything except getting into a girl's panties.

"Hey, squirt," he calls out.

Shit, made. "It's Sam."

"Come spot me, Sam."

Sam doesn't budge from his perch on the stairs. "I'll do it wrong."

"So?" Dean says with so much casual unconcern that it's got to be a trap.

Sam chews his lip. "What if I mess up?"

"Then I might get hurt." Even on his back, Dean's shrug is recognizable. He brings the weights into his chest and sits up before placing them carefully on the floor and pausing the video. "Or we could go for a run."

Sam can't help it, he laughs. "Yeah right. You don't run, Dean. Unless it's from the cops or something."

"Or something." Dean's answering smile barely qualifies as one. "Whatever. I got the shoes so I must use them. Or are you that afraid of eating my dust?" he challenges playfully.

"Yeah, right," Sam spits. "The way you smoke, your lungs probably look like a tar pit."

Briefly Dean looks shocked. It's gone just as quick. "Then if you win you'll get bragging rights. Not a bad deal."

"When I win," Sam says, "you'll let me rag on you about it?" He doesn't believe it.

Dean's smile is more open this time, more like what Sam remembers from when they were little. "Of course not." He pauses. "At least not once I get my breath back."

Sam's smile turns feral. "You're on."

---

"Holy fucking God," Dean wheezes. He's bent at the waist, hand at his side massaging a stitch, and wobbling across the grass of the park on unsteady legs. "That was… barely… a mile."

Sam grins at him from where he's bouncing on his toes, keeping warm. "Told ya." He beams, not even breathing hard.

Dean straightens a little and glares at him. "How much did I fucking smoke?" That makes Sam pause but Dean's already moving the conversation on. "Okay," he huffs, "I can do this. I know it."

"If you puke do I get to laugh?" Sam says brightly.

"Shut up." Dean growls as he starts to jog.

Sam runs backwards in front of him. "Can I take pictures?"

"You're being an ass." His voice, when not a raspy whistle-ly sound, is light not angry, which means Sam's not in trouble yet.

"Takes one to know one," Sam shoots back.

"Bitch."

"Douche."

Dean stops for a moment with that look on his face, like the world has ended or his best friend has died. Sam stops too. He puts out a comforting hand without knowing why but Dean's already pulling himself out of it. "Come on, Sam-Sammy. Let's go… go home."

They don't say another word the whole run back. Not even when Dean does indeed, puke in the Carmichael's bushes.

---

Dean goes up to his room after lunch and stays there for the rest of the afternoon. When he comes down for supper two things are obvious. He's been crying and he's pissed off. Sam was going to tease him about the run (especially the projectile vomiting) but a harsh look from Dean's green eyes gone acid-sharp encourage him to keep his mouth shut. Besides, Mom and Dad are fumbling around the situation enough as it is; they don't need to feel any more awkward.

"Are you caught up at the garage?" Mom asks as she sets the potatoes on the table.

"Nearly," Dad answers as he carves the roast.

Sam watches him work the knife through the tough meat. He knows his dad keeps the blade ninja sharp, sharp enough to cut the head off one of Anne Rice's vampires, however, as usual, the roast is over-cooked. It's over-cooked, the potatoes will be under-done, and the gravy will be lumpy, but they'll eat it and not say a word. Nobody's allowed to complain about their mom's cooking unless they're willing to do it instead.

Dad had tried to make supper once. They'd voted Mom back.

"All I've got left is Swanson's hydro-electric job," he says She makes a soft inquiring sound so Dad goes on. "The power plant isn't generating anywhere near the charge it should. I've checked for leaks—holes or faulty seals—nothing. It could be a corroded wire," he suggests to himself.

Sam knows that Dad knows that Mom isn't really interested in the how's and why's of vehicle maintenance. She asks because she understands it helps Dad work his way through problems, figure out possible solutions or new areas to try. She pays attention and makes intelligent suggestions. She's awesome like that, always has been, and Dad usually shows his appreciation by kissing her. It's something Sam really doesn't need to see between his parents! He looks up at his brother to share the familiar horror at the open display of parental affection because this was one thing they always agreed on, but Dean's sitting frozen, staring at his plate and Sam wonders what caused it this time.

He can't ask because it's time for Grace and Dean's back to being… weird. He fumbles the short prayer and, when Sam steals a peek, there's embarrassed color in his cheeks. Still it's normal weird, not pole-axed like yesterday. The meal's idle talk turns into a discussion of Sam's final Science report on the Phoenix Lights—unexplained lights that shone over Phoenix last year. Dad's opinion is that they were caused by the Hale-Bopp comet passing by and messing up the atmosphere. Mom picks US aircraft prototypes as her theory. Sam wants it to be UFO's and aliens mostly because he loves X-Files.

"Aliens don't exist," Dean says matter-of-factly and everyone looks at him. He's methodically moving food from his plate to his mouth, chewing and swallowing with eerie precision.

"What happened to 'billions and billions and billions' of stars, Dean?" Sam asks.

Dean looks at him in shock. "I quoted Carl Sagan?"

"Well, no," Sam concedes and Dean takes it as validation of his argument. "Come on, man. Out of the billions of stars and kazillions of planets don't you think at least one of them has sentient life?"

"I think, you're more likely to find faeries before you find aliens."

Sam snickers. "You always were a perv for Tinkerbell."

Dean loads up with another fork-full of potatoes even as he replies. "Short skirts should always be appreciated, dude. Besides, she was a pixie, not a faerie."

"Dean, don't talk with your mouth full," Dad says.

Dean looks at their father, stricken, and carefully swallows before saying "sorry".

That silences the table even more than Dean's alien comment but Mom asks Sam about some of the other stories he looked up for his paper and the moment passes. Dean doesn't speak again, just steadily empties his plate, then another, before asking to be excused.

Dad looks at Mom. Mom shrugs back. "Of course," Dad says. "By the way, your mother and I agreed that you didn't have to go to school tomorrow if you didn't feel ready for it."

Dean's glance travels between them. "No, I'm, um, I'll be okay." He doesn't sound like it, which could be why Mom repeats the offer. Dean declines, saying, "It's good. Get back to normal, right?

Sam thinks that 'normal' would be Dean taking them up on the offer. Nobody says it but Dean hears it anyway. "I'll walk Sammy to school."

"It's Sam. And no you won't. I don't need my hand held."

"Yeah, well, maybe I do." He smiles his practiced shit-eater grin so everyone will know he's teasing. To Sam, it's obvious that Dean's not teasing, but Mom and Dad abort their instinctive need to fuss and protect. They shouldn't because Dean's scared… of going to school.

Later that night, when Mom and Dad are ensconced in the front room watching Lois & Clark, Sam goes up to Dean's room and knocks on the door. It's only eight. It's not likely that Dean's sleeping again. Except that he looked like shit by the time dinner and chores were done. He kept putting a hand to his head like he had a headache..

There's no answer, and when he tries to open the door and it's locked. He hesitates before walking away. Halfway down the hall, he turns and goes back. Dean said it wasn't drugs that made him lose a week, but Dean's locked his door. If he's not on the roof getting high then why lock the door? But he'd told Sam that he was going to stop toking and get in shape instead. And he'd seemed really genuine, more so than Sam can remember for a long time. He should believe Dean, he should…

With a guilty glance down the hall to make sure he's alone, Sam puts his ear to the door and listens. Nothing. Just a song playing low on Dean's stereo.

Sam dances from foot to foot before swearing at himself and going to his room for the nail he uses to pop the doorknob locks. Another sweep of the hall assures him that nothing's changed; he's still alone. It only takes a second for him to have Dean's door open. The bed's tidy. His jacket's gone. The window's open and the room is empty. The son of a bitch has snuck out to get wasted with his stoner buddies.

Disappointment Sam refuses to acknowledge turns his veins to ice.

Fucking addicted asshole. Making him care again.

---

The air is thick with moisture, and he can see his breath misting in the night air. He knows it's a clue that he's dreaming but it feels so real…

He can feel his heart thumping. The feeling of 'toolate,toolate,toolate' pulses through him in time with the too-fast rhythm. The bearded guy beside him is breathing hard too, like they've both been pushing to get here. They break out of the thick woods and they're in an honest-to-God ghost town. Abandoned, falling apart, and creepy, there's not a souvenir shop or tourist info booth in sight.

There is, however, a really tall guy weaving down the street, one arm held tight to his side. He looks beat up and worn out, but when he sees Sam and the other guy walking towards him, his face lights up in a smile that's somehow familiar.

Sam! He thinks. Even sleeping he's confused because he's Sam.

Isn't he?

Before the question can wake him up, another guy, dark-skinned and wearing combat fatigues, comes up behind the tall guy and Sam knows, without seeing, that the soldier's not friendly.

The tall guy's face distorts in pain and shock, and Sam's running, running. Screaming and running but he's too slow (toolate,toolate,toolate) and the familiar-stranger (SAM!) is collapsing, falling to his knees in the mud and now he looks relaxed, almost peaceful, and Sam feels his heart seize up because this can't be happening and no,no,no, NOOOOOOO!

He wants to die too.

Sam wakes up in his own bed, hearing his scream echo in a wide empty street and he wonders if he actually screamed? His throat certainly feels like he could have. He waits but no one comes to investigate.

He sits up because this shit is getting too freaking intense. He's covered in sweat which, yeah, gross, so he needs to change. And he needs to go splash some seriously cold water on his face because there's no way that wasn't real. Except for it all being a dream, of course.

He's never had dreams like these before. He'd had the standard 'leaving the house with no clothes on' dream, of course, and he'd enjoyed the occasional 'I'm the reincarnation of Spiderman' flying dream. He'd even had dreams where he was running through the woods—incredibly fast and agile—from some unknown threat dreams, but nothing to match the kick his recent dreams have had. He's never felt so freaking alone or scared or desperate or… or helpless like he has in those dreams. It's like he's a whole other person living a whole other life—a freaking nasty life too.

He doesn't want that life, he decides. He doesn't like it: not at all.

---

The next day, Dean's up before him, which is hardly surprising since it took Sam forever to fall back asleep. Or maybe it's that Dean didn't make it to bed at all. Despite being freshly showered and polished, his brother's posture cries out his exhaustion. He's got his eyes closed and he's slurping on his coffee like it's liquid gold.

Serves him right for being a lying asshole, Sam thinks. Then he sees the Lucky Charms and glass of juice sitting out on the table.

Sam stops. "Are those for me?"

"I had toast," Dean answers. Sam sits and looks at the box of cereal that has been in the cupboard since their cousin Gwen stayed with them for a week in January while her parents went on a cruise. They're probably super stale and gross. Dean notices him not pouring. "I could make eggs if you want."

"You," Sam says disbelievingly. "You could make eggs."

Dean finally looks at him. "Yeah, I could make eggs. It's not so hard. Mix 'em up. Dump 'em in a hot pan with butter. Salt 'n' pepper. There you go. Eggs."

Sounds more filling than cereal, and less stale. Still… this is Dean, offering. "Can I have cheese on them?" he asks as a test.

Dean yawns. "Sure, if we got some." He stands up and sticks his head in the fridge. He lifts the juice jug in silent offer and Sam drains his glass in equally silent acceptance. "You want fancy scrambled?" Dean asks as he pours and Sam blinks in confusion. Dean's not really looking at him though; he just continues to speak. "I can go through the green stuff, see what… what Mom's got in the crisper."

"Um, sure."

"No mushrooms, right?"

"Are you kidding? I love mushrooms!"

Dean pauses briefly before bringing out eggs and milk and cheese and vegetables. Sam watches while Dean competently assembles and cooks the eggs and makes the toast. His only hesitation was finding the fry pan but that's hardly surprising since, as far as Sam can remember, Dean's never been in the cupboards before.

"Where is Mom, anyway?" Sam asks to break the silence.

"Some dude phoned this morning, saying he was gonna be audited, or something."

Sam nods acceptance of the explanation, his mind diverted from concern about his mother by the smells coming from the stove. Then Dean is placing the moist, colorful mass in front of him and he has to swallow both saliva and shock. "These look really good, Dean."

"Thanks, brat," he replies as he pours himself more coffee. "If you gotta fuel the engine, might as well use premium, right?"

Sam, mouth filled with fluffy goodness, stares at his brother's third cup of coffee but opts not to call him on his obvious hypocrisy.

"Speaking of fuel," Dean says oh-so casually as he cleans the counter. "Are we walking to school, or taking the car?" Sam rolls his eyes at his brother's back, refusing to snort and perhaps lose some of the yellow heaven he's consuming.

Dean turns, eyebrows slightly raised, and waits. Sam takes his time before swallowing. Jeez, who knew it was so easy to make good eggs? Who knew that Dean knew how to make good eggs? Dean's still waiting, although he's fidgeting a little now.

"Unless you spent your mysterious missing week fixing your ride, it's still at the shop. Where it was towed after your last accident."

Dean flinches, a small movement but intense. He rubs his temple absently. "Maybe I was just hoping you'd got so excited you went out and got yourself one a little early. You gotta have your learner's now, right?"

Sam frowns but he's puzzled, not angry. "I'm not fifteen yet," he reminds his brother of something that everyone knows. "Can't get my Learner's until I'm fifteen."

Dean ducks his head, embarrassed, and rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, right. Just you, um, seem… older."

Sam rolls his eyes and gets prepared to call 'bullshit' but Dean speaks first. "You've got a car picked out though, right? All researched and compared and carefully considered."

This time Sam blushes and ducks his head.

Dean follows the movement. "Hot damn, you do have one. Let me guess something sensible and 4-doored like a Civic."

Sam glares at his decimated eggs. That's almost exactly right. "A Nissan Altra, actually. Sensible's not necessarily a bad thing, Dean."

"It beats the nothing I seem to have," his brother says with a sigh. He turns back to the counter and finishes cleaning up. Mom's going to have a heart attack when she gets home. At one point, Sam thinks he hears Dean calling himself an ass for not looking after his wheels, but his brother's at the sink and the water's running so he was probably hearing things… probably. It's never bothered Dean before to have to mooch rides from his loser friends, and it's his brother's own damn fault he's car-less. He'd been street racing again, or rather practicing on an empty road, so at least when he took out the front end nobody had gotten hurt. And the farmer's field had been empty—no crops, no cows, no nothing—so all he'd had to pay for was the damaged fence and the guy had agreed not to press charges.

"It's not that far to school," he reassures Dean, and then wonders why he felt the need.

"Whatever," Dean dismisses it. "You got your homework?"

"Yes, Mom. Sheesh." He would've rolled his eyes again but they pop out of his head instead when Dean hands him a bagged lunch. "What the fuck?"

Dean whacks him on the back of the head. "Language."

Sam elbows him. "Get over yourself, asswad." Still, he can't help but peek into the bag: sandwiches with lettuce—he can see the greens, a couple juices, cookies, a pudding cup and an apple.

"Don't worry, Sammy. M-mom packed it."

Oh.

"It's Sam."

"Whatever," Dean repeats. "Let's get this show on the road."

---

Surprisingly, Dean lets Sam set the pace and pick the route. Usually, his know-it-all brother always has to be in control even, or especially, when it makes no difference but not this morning. This morning he ambles along beside Sam, not teasing, not bragging, just walking and looking at the cars and the houses like he's never been down this street before. He did much the same thing yesterday during their run… until he collapsed, gasping, at Sam's feet.

"What are you smiling about?"

"I totally kicked your ass yesterday," he says once he's sure he's out of arm's reach.

"You did not kick my ass."

"Did too," Sam says smugly. "You gasped like a landed fish and you puked your lungs up. I was barely breathing hard."

"That's still not kicking my ass," Dean says disdainfully. "You gotta put me on the ground to earn that title."

"I could've pushed you over with my finger—my baby finger—but I'm too nice."

"You're a brat." Dean says and reaches out to give him a swat, which he ducks. He avoids the next two hits by running around a tree. "Stay still and learn your place, padawan."

"Ha! Dream on," Sam taunts and does a running jump over Ms. Murchison's low hedge. With a whoop, Dean follows.

It's fun and it's silly and it reminds Sam of the way it used to be between them. He'd almost forgotten that they used to have fun. Eventually, he's laughing too much to avoid Dean's headlock. At first he tenses, expecting a noogie filled with knuckles and spite, but Dean just ruffles his hair and drags him down the street. "Submit to your supreme master!" he demands and Sam laughs out his defiance.

Then Mel Carson drives up beside them and slows down. "Yo, Dean!" he calls through the open window. Dean looks around, one quick glance as if there's some other Dean walking down the street to be yelled at from an ancient, gas-guzzling muscle car. "Dean, you fucker, where the hell you been?"

Dean finally lets Sam go and steps to the open passenger window. Sam backs away from the car, not wanting to be near Mel and his mean-spirited remarks.

"Hey, dude," Dean says casually even as his hand goes to his forehead. He's been doing that a lot and Sam wonders if he didn't hit his head after all and that's why he didn't come home and can't remember where he was or what he did when he was missing.

"Where'd you and Mike go on Saturday?" Mel asks. Sam freezes. He had been about to walk away, continue on to school; now he can't go. Not if there's a chance…

If Dean reveals anything to Mel, Sam doesn't hear it, even though he's straining his ears a little. Okay, maybe a lot.

"He's fucking scary, man," Mel says loudly and clearly. "I don't know why you like him. I mean, if they'd pulled your body out of the river after you two went off I wouldn't've been surprised."

"Yeah, well, you might not've been wrong," Dean responds as he shifts uncomfortably. "But I'm here so…"

"Here and hanging with the freakazoid." Mel says and he looks at Sam a nasty grin on his face. "Hey Brainiac. Humped any good books lately?"

"Hey ugly," Sam shoots back, "Sex life keeping your hand busy?"

"Leave him alone," Dean says before Mel can escalate the exchange. Sam's not the only one who's surprised.

"Whatchu say?"

"You heard." His brother's voice is low and hard, uncompromising.

Mel gives a bark of laughter. "You sticking up for him now?"

"I'm just not in the mood."

"Whatever," the other boy shrugs. "Get in the car and we'll get out of here.'

Dean shakes his head. "Naw, man. I'm good."

"What the fuck. You can't seriously mean to go to school?" This time, Dean shrugs and the movement is jerky and rough.

"You know I scored some great shit off my old man. We could hang out, catch up."

"I said I'm good." Dean's voice is tight. Sam's fighting to keep his mouth closed because he's never known Dean to turn down free drugs; to choose school over drugs. Maybe he did sometime in middle school but certainly not since then.

Mel's shrug is sharp, angry. "Your loss, man." With no more warning than that, he puts the car in gear and pulls away. Sam wrinkles his nose at the smell of burning gasoline. Dean walks over to where he's standing on the sidewalk.

"You didn't have to," Sam says.

Dean looks up. "Huh?"

"You could've gone with him. I wouldn't have told Mom or anything."

"If I'd wanted to go with him, I would've." He continues down the street toward the schools. Sam has to jog a couple steps to catch up.

"Dean…" What happened? Why are you different? Is it permanent? Why are you so sad?

"What is it, Sammy?"

Except asking any of that would open him up to teasing and mockery and accusations of being a wimpy-assed emo kid.

He sighs dramatically instead. "It's Sam."

Dean stops and waits for him to catch up. "I can call you squirt."

"I won't always be shorter than you." Sam scowls fiercely.

Dean pauses and all the light-heartedness disappears from his face. "No," he agrees quietly. "No you won't. Come on, Sam. You're gonna be late."

He doesn't say another word all the way to school.

---

That night, Dean once again runs with him before supper. He once again goes to bed at a decent hour. Again he locks his door and, again, Sam picks it. Dean's gone. Again. Sam curses and vows, once more, not to get sucked into believing the pretty lie Dean's telling.

That night he dreams of emptiness. A decrepit shack that's silent as death. He knows there's a body in the other room but he can't look at it. Can't believe in it. Can't accept it…

What am I supposed to do!

Then he's standing in the middle of nowhere, empty roads on all sides, bleeding out his pain to the empty sky.

Don't leave me alone…

Then he's not alone. There's a woman, mocking and triumphant, and she kisses him or he kisses her, and it's awful. She tastes like used barbeque briquettes and as soon as their mouths part there's this weight falling on him, surrounding him, crushing him. He's going to die, that weight says, but not yet; give it a year…

It's another night sleeping with a light on. He almost grabs his old stuffed bear for good measure before reminding himself that he's fourteen, not four, and too old to need something to hold in the middle of the night.

It was just a dream, after all.

Screw it, Sam thinks as he pulls Bones the Bear from his place on the shelf. He needs the sleep more than he needs his pride.

---

The next couple of days are essentially a repeat of the first. Sam wakes up to find Dean looking scrubbed and polished and tired, and the ingredients for breakfast—usually eggs but apple pancakes once—already prepped and waiting. When Mom finally manages to join them on Wednesday, Dean doesn't hand over the chore; he just adds another couple of eggs to the bowl.

They walk to school, talking trash to each other in a ways that's friendly and teasing—not mean not hurtful. Dean gets approached by his stoner friends to ditch school and get stoned-drunk-fucked-wasted with them and Dean says no. Each and every time, his big brother chooses to stay with him, walk with him to school, and each time Dean doesn't let any of them insult him. No more nerd or freak insults and certainly no physical stuff.

After one particularly vicious encounter with Charlie Shane—where Dean kept himself very deliberately between him and the cruel asswad—Dean spent the rest of the walk giving him self-defense advice.

"Your best bet is to run. You're fast and if they're in the same kind of shape as me, you'll get away easy."

"Jump over fences, take lots of turns. It'll slow you down but depending on what they've been using, they'll be uncoordinated. Hopefully, they'll trip and decide to stay down."

"If it comes to close combat, don't fight fair. This is how you pop out their eyes." And how to rip their mouths open, break their trachea, or shove their nose into their brain. Dean has a whole list of gruesome battle tactics.

"Hit them here, here or here. If you do it right, they'll be puking or gasping and out of the fight."

"Don't call for the police. Yell 'fire' instead. People will be concerned about their own property and come out and look."

"I already know that," Sam says in confused exasperation. When did Dean become such freaking expert? It isn't like Lawrence is such a hot bed of random street violence that the schools provide classes like he'd heard they do in some of the bigger cities.

"It's just a good idea to review strategies beforehand," Dean shrugs uncaring of Sam's bruised pride. "That way, if the situation does come up, you don't have to waste time screeching 'what do I do? What do I do?' " Dean lifts his hands to his face and flutters them around like a pre-teen girl in a Disney show.

Or an asshole mocking his baby brother.

Sam is unamused. "I don't screech."

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean says seriously. "Point is you don't want to freeze like that. If you're in danger you want to assess whether it's something you can take down in seconds, 'cause after that the odds shift against you, or whether you should run." He looks up at the leaves in the tree while Sam stares at him open-mouthed. "Maybe we should do some sparring before our run. I'll teach you some moves."

"You're shitting me," Sam protests. "You are going to teach me how to fight? Like you even know how." A little voice says that this could be an excuse for Dean to beat him up without repercussion, but it's squashed when Dean gives a bitter, pain-filled smile.

"You'd be surprised at what I know, little brother," he says in a shaky voice.

No eff-ing way Dean's plotting evil, unless he's a better actor than De Niro.

After school, Sam starts learning the basics of self-defense with Dean. When their Dad comes home and sees them in the backyard, he comes over to watch. It doesn't take long until he's giving them pointers. Then he's joining in. Then he and Dean are going at it in a 'mock' fight that makes Sam remember that his dad may not have seen any action in Vietnam (he'd been sent over just in time for Disengagement) but he'd still been trained as a Marine.

Trained or not, he can also see that Dean's better. He's faster, smoother, more practiced… and he shouldn't be.

A movement by the house catches his eye. He looks up to see Mom standing and watching. Her face is dark, intent, and her fingers are absently worrying her old charm bracelet.

Sam's not the only one who thinks this is weird.

---

That night Sam waits outside for Dean to climb down the tree.

He waits.

And waits.

He finally admits that Dean's not coming down so he goes back into the house, slipping like a ninja—Jackie Chan's version of a ninja at least—into the house and up the stairs. He tries the handle to Dean's bedroom door; it's unlocked. The door opens to reveal his brother, sitting on his bed in boxers and a T-shirt, leaning forward with his head in his hands. He makes a sound. At first, Sam thinks he's coughing. He's not. He's crying again or at least something close to it.

"Dean, you okay?" he asks before his brain realizes what his mouth is thinking.

The laugh Dean gives is anything but happy. "Just peachy," he answers, his voice weak and scratchy.

Sam huffs at the obvious lie. He should go, he knows he should. It was bad enough dealing with Dean coming down off of whatever, but at least he knew how to do that. He doesn't know how to deal with Emotional-Train-Wreck Dean.

Then he realizes it probably a lot the same.

He gives an exasperated huff—because that's what he would do—and goes to the bathroom for some water. He grabs a couple of Advil as if Dean's got a hangover since he read that crying hard can give a person a headache, too. Either way it can't hurt.

"Here." He thrusts the water and the pills into Dean's face.

Dean looks up at him, too tired to be surprised. "Thanks, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he says as he flops down beside him. "S-A-M. One syllable."

Dean smiles at him, lop-sided and mournful. "Sam's a stupid damn hero's name," he says. "Maybe one day, if you're unlucky, but for now, let yourself be Sammy." Dean says it like it's a special treat, a gift that he's giving him, to be called Sammy like the chubby little twelve-year old he's not anymore. And 'stupid damn hero' sounds like someone specific.

Sam looks at his brother, really looks, and notices even more changes. It's not just the eternal gloom that's following him around; it's the way he holds himself (ready to fight), the way he looks at the world (searching for threats) that says his brother's changed in some fundamental way. It's like he stepped out of the TARDIS or something.

"Are you even talking about me?" he asks eventually.

Dean looks at him and his red eyes are soft and fond and sad. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm talking about you. I never… Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?"

Sam stares. "Uh, maybe. Back in, like, Second Grade or something."

"Yeah that sounds like me," Dean snorts. The smile doesn't stay long though. He looks at Sam and it's the same kind of look Sam had given Dean just moments before, as if he's cataloguing all the changes from the Sam he (knows) remembers. "I am proud of you, Sam. I always have been. You're a great kid and you're going to grow up to be a good man."

Sam can feel his face heating. Even in May, he can feel the difference in temperature. "Dean…" he protests, squirming a little.

Dean chuckles and scuffs Sam's hair. Sam bats his hands away so Dean moves down to his ribs and suddenly it's on. Tickles ensue, and pinches and wedgies (which are hard to do in PJs). At the end, breathless from laughter and exertion, Sam is defeated; squished and arm-locked face down on the bed. Dean doesn't get a chance to claim his victory because Dad appears in the door.

"You're being a little loud, aren't you boys?"

Dean lets go of Sam immediately and Sam has the feeling that he's going to apologize, but Dad's not mad at them, not at all. There's a fond smile playing across his lips as if he's missed this too: having his two little boys rough-housing upstairs.

Dean swallows with an audible 'click'. He musses Sam's hair one last time. "Bed time, Squirt. We've got school tomorrow."

Sam's going to call him on the whole 'squirt' thing (which is totally worse than 'Sammy' if he's honest) but Dean's back to looking haunted. Sam stops, gulps back his original argument, and gets off the bed without another word. Dad's just standing there, looking goofy and Sam's not sure if that's why he turns around. "Hey Dean?" he calls.

Dean lifts his head to look at him.

"That stuff you said about me? It goes for you too, okay?"

Dean's answering smile is even softer than Dad's, but it's also deeper, as if it means a lot. "Thanks, Sammy."

---

He's chained in a void, endless like outer space but not dark or cold. It's noisy too. He can hear thunder in the distance, even a faint voice or two, crying out words he can't quite make out. He can hear the chains holding him creaking in a wind he cannot feel. What he feels are the hooks pushed through his body, holding him, stretching him... slowly tearing through him. He screams then, terrified and alone. He calls and calls and calls.

But nobody hears him. And nobody rescues him.

He's all alone.

Saaaaaaaaaam!

He jerks awake, sweaty, terrified, gulping for breath. Holy shit, he thinks. These aren't his nightmares. These are Dean's.

Like so much to do with this new version of his brother, he doesn't know what to do with them.

Chapter Text

---

On Thursday, Dean gets into a fight with one of the girls at Sam's school

Rachel Nave isn't a buddy but Sam's never had a problem with her. They study together sometimes, share a lunch table occasionally, but it's not a regular thing. Rachel asked if she could copy Sam's geometry notes and Sam didn't mind because Rachel's usually a good student. So that's what they do after school, sitting outside on the lawn, in the sun, at the front of the school. Barely even talking as Rachel carefully transcribes Sam's chicken scratches.

Sam can't honestly say who started it. Dean saunters over with his usual casual greeting of "Hey Sammy", and Rachel bounces up saying "It's Sam, you thoughtless asshole. Why can't you respect your brother's choices?"

Somehow from that, it builds into a full-on fist fight and even weirder, Dean has his ass handed to him… by a fourteen-year old girl.

Okay, she's big for her age and a jock but she's still a girl. A girl who tossed his eighteen-year old, six-foot something brother into the fence as if he was a stick. Eventually, the noise and the crowd attract adult attention and Dean and Rachel are hauled to the Principal's office, or rather, Rachel goes to the Principal's office. Dean goes to the nurse's office as he's the one bleeding.

Ms. Besel, the secretary, calls Mom at home, and while Sam and the other witnesses wait under Ms. Besel's watchful eye, there's A Serious Discussion in Principal Davies' office. Then he and the others are asked to explain what had happened and if they knew who had started it. Who'd thrown the first punch? Some say Dean, most say Rachel. The principal is inclined to give Rachel the benefit of the doubt since he remembers Dean from when he was a student there, but Sam disagrees. Dean had trash-talked at Rachel, yeah, but it wasn't until he yelled 'Crisco' that the fight had turned physical. And it had been Rachel who'd gone nuts, swinging at Dean as if her life depended on it.

Principal Davies says that doesn't make any sense and decides that Sam had misheard his brother, but he hadn't. He's sure he hadn't.

Mom and Dad arrive and the talk turns to the possibility of criminal charges and mediated settlements between the parents. They collect Dean from the nurse's office where he moves stiff and slow. Cracked ribs they're told. Keep them taped tight, don't do anything strenuous, and they should be fine in a week.

"What happened, kiddo," Dad asks in a carefully neutral voice once they're in his SUV.

Dean's got his head back and is keeping his nose pinched—bloody, not broken they'd been assured. "I have no idea."

"They were trash talking each other," Sam says. He doesn't know whether to be more embarrassed that Dean was involved in a fight at his school, or that he'd been thoroughly squashed. So much for knowing how to fight. "Then Dean… said Crisco, like the shortening, and Rachel freaked."

"Christo. I said Christo."

Which makes about as much sense as yelling about baking products.

"Why did you throw that at her?" Mom asks and there's something about her tone that has both him and Dad looking at her.

Dean's quiet, playing with the cloth the nurse had given him in case his nose started bleeding again. "Dean," Mom orders gently.

"You know why," Dean says back. He's looks at Mom and then they're staring at each other, almost challenging. Sam's eyes shifts back and forth between them, intersecting with Dad's, equally bewildered gaze, occasionally.

And Mom backs down first.

What the hell?

---

That night there's no working at the shop. There's no training in the backyard. There's no run to the park. Instead Sam is banished to his room 'to do homework' while Mom and Dad and Dean have a low-voiced discussion in the kitchen.

As if.

Sam climbs down the same tree Dean uses to escape from his room and sneaks around the house until he's under the kitchen window. Unfortunately, there's a breeze so Mom's wind chimes are tinkling and chiming, and the leaves are rustling. He can hardly hear anything and it makes him kind of want to punch something.

Like Dean, maybe, for being such a secretive asshole.

"…expect us to believe that?" Dad sounds baffled. There's soft murmuring, probably Mom, then Dad again. "You did what?"

Whoa. Now Dad sounds seriously pissed.

The wind gusts and the chimes rattle especially loud. Sam's never liked the things and right now he'd be happy if they'd get blown right off.

"Who cares?" That's Dean so he's obviously missed something important. The next bit is softer, like he's been hushed but Sam still hears Dean talking about someone being in danger. Then he talks about that Angel-shit again. Is he trying to explain the fight because of drug use? That'll go over real well. Sam nearly snorts in amusement but stops himself in time.

"That's not true. Tell him, Mary," Dad says, but if Mom says anything Sam doesn't hear it. His legs are starting to cramp up. He eases himself down onto one knee, ignoring the painful sparks caused by the return of circulation. Next thing he hears is Mom talking about salt and protections they can use.

"We should hunt the damn thing down!" That's Dean again. This time he hears Mom shush his brother.

"…talk to Dad…should know what we're up against…" That's Mom's voice. She didn't sound happy.

"…never been comfortable around your father," says Dad. "And he's never liked me."

Actually, thinks Sam, Grandpa Campbell doesn't like anybody. He's always saying stuff about how Mom's letting the family history be forgotten, and how they're both letting 'hard won experience' go to waste—though Sam hasn't figured that one out because Grandpa always said he was a travelling salesman and Mom knows how to drive a car. Besides, Grandpa Campbell usually looks at him and Dean like they're bug-slime so Sam's pretty sure Dad's not the only one Grandpa doesn't like. That's okay: Sam doesn't like him much either. Mom says he wasn't as bad before her mom died. Whatever. He's rude and disapproving now.

The sun is hitting him full on. If it weren't for the breeze he'd be a melted puddle by now. If it weren't for the damn breeze, he'd be able to hear more. They're talking about the weather (seriously?) … and cows and something that sounds like mutations. Then he hears snippets about a guy in Colorado who has a something something that'll work on just about anything.

"That's just a legend," Mom says right above his head.

She's at the freaking window! He pushes himself closer to the siding. It's rougher than he thought it would be and hotter, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to ignore it.

Dad or Dean says some stuff that Sam can't hear over his heartbeat. If he looks down at his chest he's sure that he'll see his shirt move. He breathes carefully through his mouth to minimize the sound but, really, if he can't hear them over the damn wind chimes it would be totally unfair for them to be able to hear him!

"Okay, that's enough of this for tonight!" Dad sounds angry. "Your mother and I need to have a discussion—an honest discussion—and then we'll decide on a course of action. Quite frankly, I'm thinking psychiatrists for both of you."

"Can I at least put down some salt?"

Why is Dean asking about salt? Don't they use that on slugs?

But Dad must give Dean the go-ahead because the next thing he hears is the cupboard door opening and shutting. The Serious Discussion is over and Sam needs to move, now. He has a feeling that Dean's first stop is going to be his room, which means he needs to be there. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure Mom's still at the window, and if he moves she's going to see him.

His suspicion is confirmed when he hears Dad at the window. "You never told me. You never told me any of that crap."

"Because… it wasn't going to be our life," Mom answers. "We were going to be safe."

"I died. And you apparently made some cockamamie deal, like something out of folktale, to bring me back." Dad had a near death experience? Cool… except he doesn't think his parents think it's cool.

"I know, John. I was there."

"You know how all this sounds?"

"Yes."

Sam swallows because Mom sounds so sad.

"If what Dean—Jesus, Dean—if what he tells us happened to his Sam can happen to our Sam, you realize what you did to him?"

"I know."

'His Sam', 'our Sam'… What are they talking about?

"What you condemned him to? Both of them?"

"I know." Now she sounds broken. Mom never sounds like that. "I had to save you. I had to."

He thinks he hears movement; Mom turning away from the window. He's sure of it when he hears the sobbing followed by his Dad's low voice making soothing sounds. Mom's crying?

Holy shit, Sam thinks. Holy fucking shit.

What the hell is going on?

---

They have pizza delivered for supper that night even though it's not Friday.

It's quiet and heavy at the dinner table, like it hasn't been since Dean came back from where ever. Mom's eyes are still puffy from crying, Dad's face is tight, and Dean is all 'yessir', 'nosir', 'please' and 'thank you'. It's like that episode of Classic Trek where Kirk, Uhura and the Doctor are transported to an alternate universe where they're all barbarians, except he's seeing it from the barbarian's side with everyone being super-polite and having manners and stuff.

It's too bad they're all freaking lying to him.

Maybe lying's a little harsh, but they're certainly hiding stuff. Dean has a 'his Sam' and they have an 'our Sam'. There's something bad Mom did that had had caused something bad to happen to both Sams, and maybe they've all been drinking the same Kool-Aid as Dean but they haven't given Sam his glass yet, and he wants to know what the hell is going on!

Of course he can't say that.

Dad would have a fit if he swore in front of Mom. Mom would soothe and redirect. He doesn't know how Dean would react anymore, but it would probably be just as unhelpful.

He picks off another tomato from his pizza slice and tosses it on his plate. It lands on the pile with a satisfying plop.

"Eat your tomatoes," Dad says.

"I don't like tomatoes," Sam says back.

"Since when?"

"Since now." Pick. Plop.

"Samuel Thomas Winchester…" Mom starts.

Sam looks up because Mom only uses their full names when she's really annoyed. Dean is looking at him. He flicks his eyes over their parents before looking back at Sam and shaking his head, just a notch to the side. His bright green eyes are filled with a promise to tell Sam everything, but later.

He doesn't know how he knows that's what Dean's promising because Dean hasn't actually said anything. Logically therefore, he can't know that's what Dean's promising, and given past experience with his older brother, he should make sure. So he raises a doubtful eyebrow.

Dean nods once, although it's like his chin drops but Sam knows it's a nod.

He looks at the pile of limp tomatoes, heated and soft and covered in pizza juice. He actually likes tomatoes. He especially likes fresh tomatoes that have been cooked on pizza and absorbed some of its spicy flavor. If he eats them, then his parents will think it's okay to keep things from him and that would be bad. On the other hand, if he eats them they won't get on his case, which will give Dean more time to explain everything—if that's even possible.

Principles or curiosity?

What the hell, he sighs. He eats the tomatoes.

---

When Sam goes into his bedroom, Dean's already there. He's standing at the window staring up at the sky. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd think his brother was praying. He looks better, standing easier, than he had been at supper.

"So you gonna tell me what's going on?"

Dean half turns to face him. "How much did you hear?"

Sam shifts, uncomfortable with having been caught. "How did you know?"

This time Dean faces him fully and he's smiling. "What don't I know about you? Well, the important stuff." His smile is gone. "You've always been too curious. Always have to know what's over the fence."

"Are you talking about me?" Sam asks. "Or some other Sam?"

Dean grins his rueful 'you've got me' grin. Sam crosses his arm and taps his foot.

"So, yeah, you may have noticed I'm different now." Sam adds eyebrows lifted in disdain. "It's because I'm from an alternate universe, or different dimension, or whatever you want to call it."

O—kay…

"And you just happened to find a trans-dimensional phone box standing around?" Sarcasm: Sam's got it.

Dean looks away. "A friend… rescued me, brought me here. Where I was… Bad things were happening, Sammy—had happened." Sam opens his mouth to call bullshit but Dean isn't finished. "Mom was dead. She died when you were just a baby. She can't cook." Dean smiles in what looks like awe. "I never would've guessed that she couldn't cook. And you have a home. God, you have no idea how nice you have it here."

"Dean," Sam interrupts because, emotional breakdown aside, this is sounding like nothing more than one of his brother's drug-induced delusions (Dean always did have a good imagination) but before he can continue there's a whoosh, loose papers blow around, and Sam hears wings beating.

"You were right," says a strange gravelly voice from beside him. Sam jumps and gives an admittedly girly shriek (though anybody would) and turns to face an older guy in a trench coat who just materialized in his freaking bedroom. "It appears I didn't investigate deep enough. I assumed that with the differences in religious history, the situation that gave rise to the Apocalypse wouldn't occur here. This is not the case"

"Dean?" Sam backs away from the formerly-invisible dude… who's wearing a trench coat… like a perv.

"It's okay, Sam. This is Cas—Castiel." Dean's voice is calm, like he's used to perverts in trench coats showing up in his room. Well, maybe he is. "He's the angel who brought me here."

Mom has pictures of angels scattered around the house, little statuettes, too. They never have messy hair and rumpled clothes.

"If he's an angel, where are his wings?"

Castiel—and poor Lorelei Andrews from homeroom thought she'd been given a weird name—turns and looks at him fully for the first time since he showed up. "For the most part they remain multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent, invisible to the human eye."

"Oh… okay."

"Trust me, Sammy. Cas has wings."

"Is he your dealer? Does he dip into the same shit you do? Is that what this is?"

Castiel frowns at him, looking honestly bewildered. Man, his eyes are blue; they almost glow… "The Dean you knew, the one who indulged in intoxicants, died twelve days ago. This Dean is one I brought across the divide in order to keep him safe."

Sam blinked. "Safe from what?"

"Demons. Angels. Lucifer."

"Lucifer? Like… the devil. That Lucifer?"

"Do you know of another?" The guy's voice is absolutely lacking in humor and Sam has to admit that this guy is good. Most people would be cracking up by now but he's still wearing a look of innocent concern. Too bad he's bat-fuck.

"He brought you home?"

"Actually, I brought his soul here to your world, where his counterpart had recently died leaving an empty body that could house his spirit. It was easier than rebuilding his body at a later date, plus time was short. I needed to warn the garrison that Michael's vessel was gone and that therefore, we needed to rescue Sam from Lucifer before he could be convinced to say yes."

Sam knows his jaw is on the floor because he can feel the air drying the back of his throat.

"He's the one who rescued me… from certain death I suppose." Dean snorts unhappily. "I haven't thanked you for that have I?"

"I do not expect thanks—"

"Good. 'Cause you're not going to get it."

The guy takes an almost-step forward, like swaying. "Dean, Sam is still resisting." Dean barks something that isn't even close to a laugh. "He's resisting because they do not have you to use as leverage."

"Who am I resisting?"

"Not you, Sammy. Not yet."

"Perhaps not ever." This time Trench Coat takes the step that brings him to his brother's side. He doesn't touch Dean, even though Sam thinks he kind of wants to. "It may be too late to save your Sam, though we will continue our efforts to rescue him, but it's not too late for this Sam. This world's Azazel is planning the Apocalypse with Sam as the Vessel and this time you can save him."

Dean's working his jaw, swallowing, and Sam realizes he's crying again. "I didn't save him before."

"The failure is not all yours. I, too, share the blame."

It's so quiet in his room that Sam can hear Dean gulping for composure. Trench Coat—Castiel—just stands there, an overpowering presence in his tiny bedroom. It's like pulling a band-aid off to move his gaze back to his brother. "Dean, you promised me the truth. You flip out on a friend of mine at school—"

"She was a demon," Castiel says and Sam's gaze snaps back to him. Now the dude's squinting at him. And his eyes are still really blue…

Sam blinks and turns back to his only partially crazy brother. "You flipped out and then let her toss your ass into a tree."

Dean chuckles harshly. "Let? Fuck, Sam. I'm lucky she didn't pop out my spine."

"To do something of that nature would have revealed to the crowd that she was not fully human. Considering the effort made to… fly under the radar, it would have been illogical and counter-productive."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock."

Sam waves his arms in frustration. "Jesus, guys! I feel like you're speaking Swahili or something. Can you just tell me why you flipped out, why Rachel kicked your ass, and why Mom spent, like, half an hour crying her eyes out downstairs?"

"Cas?" Dean turns to look at his friend. He quirks his head, asking a favor. "Maybe if he sees…"

Castiel is shaking his head regretfully. "I have already healed you. The more I use my abilities in this world, the more likely it is that my presence will be detected." Dean opens his mouth to speak but the guy lifts a hand and stops him. "Not just by the forces here, but by those in our reality. They could, theoretically, trace my power to you, and thence to your family."

Dean's rubbing his head again, but not like it hurts, like he needs to be able to think harder. "It would put them all at risk."

"Exactly."

"Shit."

"Gu-yyys," Sam whines (he admits it).

"Yeah, right. Have a seat, this could take a while," Dean mutters. He looks around and pushes Sam onto his bed. Sam lets himself be pushed since Dean sits down beside him. The weird dude keeps standing. "So, how much do you know about the Christian doctrine?"

"Uh," Sam's mind goes blank for a minute. "It's an offshoot of Judaism," he says. "But, where Jews believe Christ was the exiled son of a king or something, Christians believe he was the Son of the Lord and Lady."

"Go back farther."

"'First the Lord made the Heavens and the Lady made the Earth'?" Sam quotes.

Dean makes an odd sound, almost a laugh but kind of choked off. "That is so weird," he says. "Okay, where I come from? There's no Lady, no Asherah to sit at Jehovah's right hand balancing Him. There's just God and His angels."

Sam just blinks, because the idea of God being alone is just… bizarre.

"In my world, when God made human beings and gave them souls and free will and all that shit, Lucifer was pissed."

"That's the same as here, isn't it?" He vaguely remembers that from the odd Sunday School lesson he'd gone to with Joe Bianchi. Oddly, he looks at Trench Coat guy for confirmation.

"That is correct," Trench Coat—Castiel—confirms. "However, here Asherah interceded and persuaded Lucifer to take over as ruler of Hell. She convinced both Lucifer and God that he would be valued there as he, of all their children, would understand why good people do bad things, and he could forgive them or punish them as required."

"And that didn't happen in your world?" Great, he sounds like he's totally buying into Dean's bullshit. And he's not, he tells himself. He's not because that would mean that his brother—his real brother—has been dead for nearly two weeks, and Sam hasn't even missed him.

"Without the Lady Asherah, there was nobody to intervene on Lucifer's behalf, so when Lucifer nearly destroyed the Earth, God had Michael throw him out of Heaven and imprison him in Hell."

"What has that got to do with us?" Sam asks.

"Because Michael and Lucifer want to finish the battle," Castiel supplies.

"To do that, they need us to break the seals of Lucifer's cage and let him out. That's where we—me and my Sam—were at when Castiel brought me here?"

Sam looks at Dean then his so-called angel friend. "But that's in your 'other' world. What's that got to do with me here?"

Castiel looks even more solemn. "I do not know. Given the fundamental differences in theological origin, I had believed that the only threat your family would face from demons is the same one that all humans face."

Sam can't help it; he snorts. "Are you talking possession, like in The Exorcist?"

"I do not understand the reference," Castiel says but his voice is overridden by Dean's emphatic affirmative.

"Demons are agents of chaos and destruction. They like messing with people and they don't care if the people they take over get killed because of it."

"Like sociopaths?"

Dean chuckles. "Yeah, I suppose so. They certainly don't believe the rules of human society apply to them."

Sam stares down at the carpet. He doesn't want to believe them—his not-brother and the self-proclaimed angel—but they're pretty convincing. "And they're hanging around me? The demons?" He looks up and sees Dean nod.

"Looks like it."

"Why?" It's a question neither Dean nor Castiel can answer, or maybe they won't answer. "How do I protect myself?" he asks instead of the thousand other questions he wants to ask.

"We're working on it," Dean answers with a glance at Castiel. "But the salt'll help keep them out of the house, and I can do up a protection charm so you can't get possessed."

"It will not stop an angel from taking control of his body," Castiel says flatly.

Dean jumps up aggressively. "As long as he doesn't say 'yes' then angels can't get in, that's what you said."

"That is correct," Castiel confirms and most of the fight goes out of his brother—not brother. The guy holds something out to Dean who looks up at his friend in distress. Castiel's voice is gentle as he says "It is doing no one any good in your old world." Still, it takes a moment for his brother, his new brother, to take it. Dean holds it up and Sam can see it's a huge freaking knife with etchings on the blade and a fancy handle. It looks scary and made to kill, and Dean handles it like it's going to jump out and stab him.

"Will it still work?" he asks. "Christianity ain't exactly the same here."

Castiel nods once. "It should."

"Why wouldn't it work here?" Sam asks. "It's a knife. Sharpen it and cut stuff with it; seems pretty simple to me.

Dean laughs. "Damn, I'd forgotten what a mouth you had on you when you were this age.'

Castiel drops his hands to his sides. "I should go back. My brethren might be getting suspicious."

"You're being careful, right?" God… Dean's pleading. "I couldn't… not both of you."

"I will be careful," Castiel promises. "And we will get your brother back."

Sam's looking right at him, staring at the crazy dude who popped into his bedroom, and he just freaking disappears. The sound of wings, a slight breeze, and he's not there anymore… Sam swallows; it hurts because his throat is suddenly tight and doesn't want to move.

Sam whirls on Dean.

"Seriously, Dean!" he says. "What did you put on the pizza?"

"Seriously, Sam. Nothing," Dean answers and Sam almost believes him but he can't, not really. It's not possible… "Cas really is an angel. He really did bring me here from another reality."

"And I'm really going to die?"

"You didn't… It was supposed to be safe here. Lucifer fucking volunteered to go downstairs so no need to get him out so no Apocalypse so no need for demons to be hanging around. None of that crap was supposed to happen here! Mom's fucking alive!" He gives another one of those laughs that says nothing's funny and the look he gives Sam is wild-eyed.

Sam tries to reassure him. 'Dean, you are safe here."

"Not me, dummy," Dean cuts him off. "You! You're supposed to be safe, so I don't have to worry about freaking demons wanting to anoint you or manipulate you into freeing fucking Lucifer. God, Sam. I couldn't save him. I couldn't… There's so many things I should've done. Earlier. If I'd done them earlier, I could've saved him. I should've killed Ruby way earlier for a start."

"You … should have killed?" Sam doesn't want to hear this, just no.

"Yeah, lying fucking demon. Promise me, if some skanky ass bitch, carrying a knife like this one, shows up and says she only wants to help, you'll fucking tell her no." Which doesn't sound the same as killing her but still… melodramatic or what? It matches the way Dean clutches at his shirt. "She's tough, and mouthy. She likes tight jeans, leather jackets and half a bottle of ketchup on her fries, and she's fucking poison, Sam. You need to get away from her and then tell me." Dean nods. "Tell me, and I'll go kill her for you."

"Dean!" Sam says and he knows it's close to a whine. "You say you're not on drugs but then you say stuff like that. Angels. Demons. Killing people. Trans-dimensional travel. And, okay, the disappearing guy with no sense of humor adds realism but…" He trails off because that's a very good argument that Dean's telling the truth. Sam flops down flat on the bed. He buries his hands in his hair and tugs. It doesn't rearrange his memories into anything more understandable. "Shit," he mumbles. And if Mom caught him swearing he'd be grounded for a week.

Mom: who can break apart, clean and reassemble Dad's guns as good as those guys on TV…

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

Dean lies down next to him. "It's a lot to absorb all at once. If it makes you feel any better, Dad had the same reaction," he says in support and understanding.

"Mom didn't," Sam points out and it's a question.

"No. I wasn't sure if it would be the same here but it is. Mom was a hunter, and no," he says before Sam can comment, "I don't mean of deer. In my life—my other life—we—you, me and Dad—were all hunters. Angry spirits, wendigos, poltergeists, rawheads, all sorts of nasty supernatural shit. Hell, we even took out Bloody Mary."

"You mean that thing with the mirror?" Sam asks in disbelief.

"You have that here too?" Dean asks with a small smile.

Sam rolls his eyes and it feels good to be doing something so normal. "Well, duh! Say it three times in the mirror and bad things happen."

"Yeah," Dean's smile is a little less strained. "It's true, so don't ever try it."

"I'm not eight, Dean."

"I know." It doesn't stop his brother from giving him this stupidly sappy look.

Sam huffs. "You were telling me about Mom."

Dean sighs, looking away. "Yeah, Mom. She was a hunter, so were her parents, and I guess her whole family going way back."

"You mean like Uncle Ed and… and Christian the dweeb?" Sam interrupts, surprised. "They're hunters?"

Dean blinks at him as if he doesn't know who Sam's talking about. Turns out he doesn't. "I dunno, Sammy. We didn't know Mom's family. Sam found out that a lot of them were killed—accidents, heart attacks, that kind of thing—around 2000, 2001 in… in my world."

"That's, like, in four years or so," Sam says in shock. "They're all going to die?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair, digging his fingers into the back of his neck. "I dunno, man. If we can figure out a way to derail Yellow Eyes' plan early then there won't be any reason to kill them."

Sam stared down at his hands clenched between his knees. This was kind of huge. If Dean and Castiel were telling the truth then it wasn't just his life on the line, but it's Gwen's and Christian's and Mark's and Susie's. It's not like Sam's really close with any of his cousins, just like Grandpa Campbell, they've always looked down on him and Dean, but still… Sam doesn't want them to die.

Another thought occurs to him. "How do you know they were hunters?"

Dean snorts. "More angel crap." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. What's important is that in 1972, Azazel, a powerful demon, targeted Mom. He killed her parents and killed Dad, all so he could force her to make a deal. He'd bring Dad back to life if she gave him permission." Dean looks away from him, chewing on his lip in indecision—he's not sure he should say the next bit. Sam's heart starts thumping because he knows this isn't going anyplace good, and he's suddenly not sure he wants to hear it.

Except, he probably needs to know if Dean's going to save him from whatever happened to the other Sam.

"Permission for what?" he forces himself to ask.

"I don't think he told what, exactly, not then, but he wanted into your nursery. He bled into your mouth, Sammy, when you were six months old. And in my world, Mom walked in on him and that yellow-eyed bastard killed her for it."

That's not exactly what Sam had expected. Mom's dead in Dean's world, like, dead-a-long-time, Sam-never-knew-her dead. He can't even imagine growing up without Mom. He doesn't want to imagine it so he focuses on something he can deal with… maybe. "I have demon's blood in me?"

"Not a lot, just a few drops, but it was enough."

Demons… demons are bad guys, Destruction and chaos and 'death to humans' bad on a level with Daleks or the Borg. He lifts his wrist up, turning it into the light, trying to see under his skin into his vein, to see if the blood looks weird somehow. "I don't feel different."

"You started getting visions after your twenty-second birthday."

"Visions?" His stomach feels tight because he hasn't been able to forget his too-vivid dreams that could almost count as visions, right? "What kind of visions?"

"Well," Dean chuckles, "Useless death vision things. They were always tied to Old Yellow Eyes though…" He pauses and peers at Sam so Sam tries to appear innocent and unknowing. "They gave Sam massive headaches and nosebleeds so, unless that's been happening to you, you don't need to worry." Sam looks at him in surprise and Dean smiles. "You get this little frown, right here." He lifts a finger to his own brow and Sam matches the move. He can't feel it.

Dean laughs outright and the soft mattress jiggles with his movements. "Don't worry about it, Squirt. You don't have wrinkles." The light goes out of Dean's eyes and he clasps his hands between his knees, staring at them as if he's going to squeeze out gold any moment. He's back to chewing his lip. And talk about frowns…

Sam doesn't know why he does it, this could be some big con, but he reaches out a hand and pats his brother's arm. "It'll be okay, Dean." Although he's not sure what'll be okay, not really. Doesn't matter. Dean looks at him, green eyes bleak and pleading.

"That guy, Castiel, the angel, he said they were working on rescuing your Sam, so it'll be okay, right?" The words tumble unfiltered from his mouth. He can't stop them because he needs to remove that look from his big brother's eyes. "Of course he'll be okay. I mean, they're angels, right? All powerful, bad-ass, warriors of Heaven."

Dean snorts. One side of his mouth lifts in a mocking smile. "Angels," he says seriously, "are generally dicks and shouldn't be trusted."

Okay, now that kind of cynicism sounds exactly like the old Dean.

"Is Dean really dead?" he asks, because he still hasn't applied a filter to his mouth.

Dean flinches and looks away. "Um, yeah. A Reaper came and everything."

Sam nods and he carefully doesn't look at this Dean. That tight feeling in his stomach hasn't gone away. In fact, it's gotten worse because now his chest is having a hard time rising and his sinuses are hurting and he knows it means he's going to cry but he doesn't want to. Not for that Dean.

A hand, large and warm, rubs soft circles on his arm. "It's okay. He was a… a douche, but he was still your brother. You're allowed to miss him."

It's Sam's turn to chuckle unhappily. "I'm not even sure I do miss him but…" He stops and runs the back of his hand across his eyes. He looks at this stranger, some other Sam's brother, wearing his brother's body. "I'll never know if we could've been friends again, ever. You know?" And this Dean, a stranger but more of a brother than his own had been for a long, long time, pulls him into his chest with gentle words of understanding and lets him cry.

---

Later, while Sam's getting ready for bed, not only does Dean salt the access points but he draws weird symbols and stuff on Sam's walls. Dean also has Sam take off his PJ top so he can draw the 'anti-possession' charm he talked of. It consists of a fancy pentagram surrounded by a circle of flames. To Sam it looks a little too much like a cheap biker tattoo thing but Dean swears by it so he sits (mostly) still and lets his brother-not brother mark him up. It doesn't help Sam's opinion that the ink smells like licorice.

His brother even stayed to tuck him in, for God's sake. No way is Sam going to admit that it felt kind of nice.

"Dean?" he finally says just before Dean leaves his room.

Dean pauses. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"I, um…" His mind blanks. KISS, he reminds himself: Keep It Simple, Stupid. "I just want to say thanks."

"For what?" Dean asks.

"Your, your Sam is somewhere else." He takes a breath. "That angel guy—"

"Castiel."

"Castiel," Sam corrects. "He said your Sam is still fighting." Dean freezes. Sam takes a breath and forces himself to continue. "I'm not… I don't really do religion, but I'll pray for him." It's a concession because… because Sam wants this Dean to be his Dean. He's not sure when that happened, but it's true now and Sam's selfish enough that he doesn't want Dean to have another little brother somewhere else. He's also self-aware enough to realize how much of jerkwad that makes him.

For a minute or two there's nothing but the sound of his brother pulling in rough breaths. "Thanks, Sammy," Dean finally says and his voice is choked. He swallows determinedly and turns to go. Crap.

Sam sits up. "I have nightmares," he blurts out. "I have your nightmares, I think."

Dean stops. "What?"

"I thought they were just really vivid dreams but, maybe, they're your nightmares, or… or your memories, maybe."

Dean's mouth is open, in either shock or horror Sam can't be certain. He glances around the room, even out the door, before he moves back to Sam's bed. "Mine?"

Sam nods. "In one you're running toward this guy who's just been stabbed." Dean's breath catches and he goes pale. "That's Sam, isn't it?" Dean nods. "How did he survive?" Sam asks.

"He didn't." Dean's voice is a painful whisper.

Sam frowns because that doesn't make any sense. He's going to ask for an explanation but Dean speaks first.

"I can't—" He swallows, rubs his hand over his face. "I can't talk about this, Sammy. I can't."

"You nearly died too."

Dean snorts. He sits down hard enough to make Sam's legs bounce. "I did die."

Chains and heat and pain and alone, alone, alone. Saaaaaaam!

"Why am I dreaming your memories," he asks instead of poking at Dean more.

This time Dean's laugh contains some amusement. "How the fuck would I know? I just got tossed here. It doesn't make me an expert."

Sam flushes and shrugs in embarrassment. He picks at the fuzzballs on his bedspread but, not looking at Dean, but he doesn't back down. "Maybe you can ask your angel friend."

"Castiel."

"Whatever." He sneaks a peek at the brother he wants to keep. "Why'd he bring you here? I mean, he did bring you, right? You didn't volunteer."

Dean looks down at the carpet under his feet, a particularly uninspiring piece of fabric that's not grey-not brown-not green. It's also not going to answer Sam's question. "It was… It was an escape. Sam told him to take me and run, hide me from the devil, from the angels. From the whole goddamn thing."

"From the angels?" Sam asks because angels are supposed to be the good guys, and even though Dean did say they were mostly dicks, it still seems wrong to think of them as creatures to run from.

Dean doesn't explain, just nods and moves on. "The thing is, I think this was the first place he found that seemed okay, and where he wouldn't have to, I dunno, make me a body or something."

"He can do that?"

"He's done it before." Dean's smile is lopsided. "Course then he had all of Heaven's power behind him."

There's a loose thread on his bedspread. Sam knows he probably shouldn't pull at it but it seems a lot less important than the questions, well… question, singular, that's thumping in his head. He also knows that Dean's looking at him, wondering if he's answered all of his (not-quite) baby brother's questions. He hasn't, but Sam can't get it out. He pulls the thread instead and it comes out in a long line. A large hand lands on his head, rumpling his hair. He shakes it off automatically and it helps him relax. It's not until Dean's actually starting to stand up that Sam can get the question out.

"Are you going to go?"

Dean sits down again and looks at Sam. Sam can't look back.

"If the angels save your Sam," he squeezes out. "Will you go back to your world?"

It's quiet. The clock in the hall is ticking but tonight it sounds soft, not ominous. It's warm so the furnace isn't going.

Sam knows the answer before Dean even says it. "He needs me."

I need you, he wants to say. Sam tries not to think because then he'd have to acknowledge that his brother—his real brother—is dead and he can't be sorry for it. He can't be sorry that the mean-tongued, drugged-out, lying, thieving douche is dead, but he should be. He knows he should be because that Dean was his family and not this new, nicer, patient Dean who actually seems to like him.

His brother-not brother tucks him back in under the covers and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead, all the world like he's the parent instead of Mom or Dad. "G'night Sammy," he murmurs and then he's out the door before Sam can say anything else to make him stay.

He is a bad person, he decides because he still can't be sorry.

He is so going to Hell.

Sam tries not to sleep, afraid he might dream of old-Dean's death or life in Hell, or something equally awful, but the only thing he has to distract him are the sounds coming from his parents' bedroom. It had been easier to ignore their activities before he'd hit puberty, before he made the connection between the noise and what it meant. Nowadays, hearing them frigging moaning at each other is enough to make him throw wood—which is a whole other level of wrong but not his fault since he's a hormonal teenager. Jeez, they don't try to filter themselves.

He has friends whose parents barely sleep in the same bedroom anymore. It probably means they're going to divorce, but it also means they don't have to hear their parents… grunting, while doing… that. It's like Cupid, or Eros, or some damn love god, had taken a personal interest in making sure his mom and dad end every fight the same way: with make-up sex. On the plus side, as a distraction it works pretty damn good because, despite all the current pop-psych-babble about 'healthy adult relationships', he really doesn't want to listen to his parents do it. It may have been necessary for his birth but he'd really like to be able to believe that they stopped after he was born.

They hadn't. He just wasn't usually awake to hear them. (Thank the Lord and Lady.)

So they make noise, he pretends that he's not hard (while surreptitiously rubbing himself), and he doesn't have to think about demon blood or dead brothers for a while longer.

He's actually kind of sad when they stop because now he has nothing to hold onto to keep him awake. The clock ticks in the hall. The furnace fan kicks on. He wishes he could sneak downstairs for some cola or something but Mom hadn't done the shopping.

His eyelids drift down.

He sits up, panting slightly. He doesn't want to sleep because he knows he'll dream of Dean drowning or demons coming after them—the blood bubbling in his veins like acid. Something horrible.

He grabs one of his school books but the dense print only makes it worse. He drops the textbook and grabs The Grapes of Wrath instead. It helps… for a while His blinks become longer and longer and lonnnngg…

He needn't have worried. That night, if Sam dreams, he doesn't remember it.

Chapter Text

---

When Sam wakes up, groggy and blurred around the edges, he finds the house full of activity. Mom and Dad are heading out to Colorado, and he and Dean are being dropped off at Grandpa Campbell's for the two days it'll take them to make the trip.

"Mom!" he protests even as all he wants to do is curl up back in bed. "What about school? I've got that project I was going to finish." Which is for bonus marks he doesn't need. It's not like the teachers are actually expecting any students to work, not with the final day of class so close. "Besides, Grandpa is scary and kinda weird, and I think he hates us." It's the first time he's said it out loud. Mom doesn't argue with the scary part or about him being weird, but she insists that her Dad doesn't hate them.

"You'll be safe there, Sam," she murmurs, running a soothing hand over his hair. "That's the important thing."

It's a good thing Dean explained why it's important to be safe or he'd totally be calling her on it. Instead, he flashes a look at his brother—Sam's brother—and Dean shrugs back at him.

"You don't have to go now," Dean says to Mom and Dad. "I've got this knife that'll work." He reaches around his back.

Mom looks curious but Dad's already shaking his head. "You have to get too close with a knife and if demons are as bad as you say…" Dad's mouth tightens. He'd die to protect them, Sam realizes and it robs him of breath even as his heart pounds.

"We could set up a devil's trap and then summon it into it," his brother suggests and this time it's their mom shaking her head. The conversation starts to turn into a discussion about rituals materials, invocations and consequences. At first, Dad tried to stop them, glancing at Sam as if to see if he's hearing all this. Sam pretends to ignore it but he hears everything. He also hears the theme from the X-files running through his brain, although it should probably be The Twilight Zone music.

His life has become so weird.

Then the back door goes flying off its hinges and into the far wall, scattering the carefully laid salt-line all over the floor. Standing in the doorway is a slim, white guy with huge smile lines in his cheeks and a big dimple in his chin. Sam's sure he's seen the guy before but he can't remember where. All he knows is that the guy feels wrong, wrong, wrong, in a way that last night's visitor hadn't. Also, considering the way he managed to kick in their door? Probably not human.

Sam decides to scrunch down into a little ball in the corner and wait for him to go away.

"Well, well, well, the gang's all here—even Dean," the stranger sneers at them. "Hello, Dean. I have to admit I didn't believe Rachel–"

His brother shouts "Christo!" and the guy flinches. His eyes turn a milky yellow color, corroded and nasty looking. Dean curses and tries to push their parents out of the room but it's too late. The weird guy is smirking at them and flinging them all back against the cupboards, or in his dad's case down the hall, with just a gesture of his hand. Sam's pinned against the fridge by an invisible force, helpless. He doesn't like the sensation. He doesn't like it at all. This is way, way worse than the time Charlie Shane pinned him with an arm across his throat while Mel dragged his pants off. At least then he'd managed to stab Charlie with his nail file. This time, he can't even raise his finger. He knows, because he tries.

The guy, demon—frigging creepy dude—saunters closer to his brother, and there's something almost feline in his movements. "As I was saying, Dean-o," the guy snarls. "Rachel said you were back and hanging around with your baby brother, but I knew that was impossible. After all, I'd told Maggie… Sorry. You knew her as Mike," the guy explains even though nobody had asked. "I told Mike to get rid of you and she said she'd tossed you in the river with your system so full of barbiturates that you couldn't breathe coherently let alone swim, so how are you here? Who brought you back?"

It's Mr. Lane, Sam realizes, the custodian for the East Wing of the school. He always seemed like a decent guy, never taking anything too seriously, always smiling.

"Bite me," Dean snarls back.

"Oh-ho! Bite you? I don't think so. I don't think this new and improved version of you would break under a little pain." The demon leans in close enough that Dean's forced to turn his head away. "You think I can't recognize Heaven's stench on you, boy? You think I don't realize that Michael's been reaching out to his true vessel? Why else would I come here? Break cover after being so patient for so long?" Michael's vessel? Sam thinks, stunned.

"I'm not–" Dean starts.

"Sure you are, Dean-o," the demon practically purrs it into his brother's ear. "Two heavenly brothers, two earthly brothers, two vessels. Except he's trying to jump the gun. He's going to roll into you like the whore you are. Then he'll kill little Sammy here before he even gets the chance to meet his destiny."

"No," Dean states firmly. "That's not going to happen."

"You're right. It's not," Mr. Lane says soothingly. "Because I'm going to take little Sammy, Sam, Samuel with me and protect him. Just like I've done his whole life. And you, you big, dim moron," the demon says cheerfully. "You're going to tell me everything I want to or I'm going to start playing with my new toys."

The demon steps backwards towards the center of the kitchen. He has his arms outstretched like a Circus Master. He flicks his wrist theatrically and Mom screams, a short, choked-off sound. When Sam looks, a bloody stripe's appeared across her stomach. Sam pulls against whatever's holding him and calls out to her.

"Just so you understand how serious I am about this, Dean-o," Mr. Lane says good-naturedly.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean curses.

"Who brought you back?" Mr. Lane takes another step away from Dean and closer to their mom, hand lifted threateningly. "What did they tell you?" Then the demon takes another step, and all at once, Sam feels the pressure trapping him disappear. All his weight is back on his own two feet and he can see the same release happening with his family. Mom slides down the pantry door, leaving behind a red streak. She's glaring so hard at the intruder that she doesn't seem to notice she's been injured.

"Mom?" Sam asks nervously, stepping towards her on wobbly legs.

"I'm okay, sweetie. Check on your father." He doesn't have to because Dad stumbles into the kitchen. He's holding his left arm in his right, like something's hurting. "I'm okay," he says, echoing his wife. "Just banged it."

Between them, in the middle of Mom's kitchen, the former-janitor is glaring at them. "What did you do?"

This time it's Dean who steps forward, sneering. "I was expecting a visit," he says. "So I prepared a surprise." He follows Dean's gaze upwards and sees a star enclosed in a circle with a bunch of squiggly bits painted on the ceiling. It's done in a tone that's barely a full shade different from the main color. Dean must have used the leftovers from when they repainted the kitchen four years ago, Sam thinks inconsequentially.

"What's going on?" Dad asks.

"Devil's trap," Dean says. "I couldn't sleep last night and I was expecting something to show up."

"A devil's trap," the demon says at the same time, looking up at the weird, barely visible, pattern on the ceiling. Mr. Lane laughs and claps his hands in a mocking salute. "I have to hand it to you, kiddo. You were hiding a lot under that drugged-out, sexed-up exterior, but do you really expect your little art project to hold me?"

He waves his hand and cracks appear in the ceiling, running from the edges to the middle. They reach the faint circle… and stop. Mr. Lane frowns at it, then frowns at them.

He's going to make some smartass remark, Sam knows it, but Dean speaks first. "Why are you here," his brother demands. "Why blow your cover now?"

The demon snorts. "You have something that belongs to us," he says. "Little Sammy. Given to us by your mother of her own free will."

Mom's quick to shout a denial, "That's not true." She's got a kitchen towel pressed to her stomach but she doesn't seem to be bleeding anymore since the towel's not turning red.

"Oh but it is, proud Mary," the demon says mockingly. "You made your deal, and I gave you ten years. Just enough time for you to give birth to your sweet, baby boy. You were such a cute, little thing," Mr. Lane says to Sam. "Still are."

It makes a shiver run down Sam's spine. The old Mr. Lane had always been decent, had never given Sam or any of his friends any weird vibes. Not so much with the new possessed version. When Dad grabs his shoulder and pushes him behind his large frame, Sam lets himself be pushed.

"You stabbed my father, murdered my mother, and killed my fiancé in front of me!" Mom snarls. "And you say I made the deal freely?"

"Sure you did, sweetheart: you could've let him stay dead," Mr. Lane says reasonably. "Instead you made a deal, and now the balloon payment has come due. I'm taking the boy."

"What do you want with Sam?" Dad interrupts the brewing argument. Sam would echo the question but he's so scared that it's all he can do to keep his stomach down. There are demons in his house, in his life, after him.

"Sammy, little Samuel, you both should be so proud," the demon says mockingly. "Your Sam's going to be a hero. He's going to save us all." Which hardly answers the question.

"How?" Mom demands, her voice cold and scared.

It's Dean who answers her. "Lucifer's Perfect Vessel," he states softly. The demon turns his head to face his brother. Mom does too. So does Sam, for that matter. And Dad. "But Lucifer chose to go downstairs," Dean points out, bewildered.

The statement has Mr. Lane laughing but it's angry and bitter. "Chose?" he chuckles nastily, then shrugs. "Well, maybe he did. 'Better to rule in Hell', and all that. But he didn't choose to be locked in and forgotten while Mommy and Daddy went on an extended second honeymoon."

"What?"

"That's right. The Divine Couple have jumped ship, skipped town, snuck off like thieves in the night, and they left their oldest boy in charge." Mr. Lane's voice is ugly, angry and mocking.

"Michael?" Dean confirms. "You mean the Archangel Michael, right?"

"That smug, sanctimonious prick," the demon jeers. "He never did like that Lucifer was the favorite. He's the one keeping Lucifer away from the rest of his family." His big, toothy grin is back. "But with little Sammy's help, we're going to change that."

"It's Sam!" The response is instinctive. Only one person's allowed to call him Sammy, and possessed Mr. Lane isn't that person.

"Sam, Sammy, Samuel," the demon said dismissively. "Surface names that hide who you truly are." There's the sound of cracking wood. "Your little circle won't hold for much longer then you either surrender him and live, or you die. Either way your precious Sammy is mine."

"Leave my boy alone." Dad's growl is even more impressive than Mom's.

He starts to charge forward but Dean steps in front of him. "Don't break the circle, Dad," he says urgently. John stops but his shoulders are heaving and his eyes are brown flame. Only when he's sure Dad's not going to do anything rash does Dean turn back to the thing trapped in their kitchen

"I don't think so," Dean says then he closes his eyes as if concentrating. He looks up at the demon, and he doesn't look like Sam's brother anymore—at least not the eighteen-year old version. "Exorcizamus te," he says solemnly, "Omnis immundus spiritus…"

Holy shit, Sam thinks. Dean knows Latin!

Mr. Lane jerks and groans as Dean continues his chanting. He's at it for a while, a lot longer than they show in the movies and stuff, but it looks like it's working. There's sweat dripping down his face from being focused so hard for so long but he doesn't hesitate. "Non ultra adios," he says and even Sam can tell that's not right. Dean stops, frowns, and tries to remember the rest of the ritual. "Non ultra ad-ad–"

"Non ultra audeas, serpens," Mom takes over smoothly. "Callidissime, decipere humanum–"

Mr. Lane stops moaning and starts laughing instead. "Hot damn, woman! It's no wonder you were my favorite. All these years and you're still the fierce, little warrior you were back then."

Mom's voice trails off.

"Shit," he hears Dean mutter.

"What is it?" Dad asks.

"Did you really think it would be that easy, Dean-o?" the former Mr. Lane asks with another one of his creepy smiles.

Dean ignores the demon and answers their Dad. "He's locked himself into the body. Exorcism's not going to work."

"And kudos to you for knowing that. I must say, if this is what it means to be one of the Campbells—even estranged—then I must take another look at your family history. What do you think, proud Mary?" He looks at Mom with narrowed, evil eyes. "Think your daddy would appreciate it if I dropped in and said 'Howdy'?"

"I think you won't get the chance," Dean says, taking a deep breath and muttering what sounds like a prayer. "Amizpi amiran," he says firmly, the odd words grinding out of his mouth

The former Mr. Lane freezes inside the devil's trap. Only his eyes move and they combine surprise and hatred with a furious worry. Dean's done something unexpected. Again.

Whatever it was, he won't have long to take advantage of it. Sam can tell the demon's working against the effect of whatever Dean said because he's twitching, Small movements that flow like tiny ripples across Mr. Lane's skin, it reminds Sam of horses being bit by flies. It only takes moments before the demon's wiggling his eyebrows and moving his lips.

He's not fast enough though.

In the time it takes for Mr. Lane to free his mouth enough to make his trademark sneering smile, Dean pulls that fancy knife out of a sheath hidden along his spine and takes the three steps needed to put him in the demon's personal space. Then Dean stabs him, coldly, efficiently and with no hint of emotion. His brother pulls the blade back and pushes it in, once, twice, three times. He even gives it a small twist each time, and his expression doesn't change.

The demon looks surprised as his gaze drops to where the blade is buried. Then he starts to flash inside his skin. A bright, pulsing light that illuminates the janitor's skeleton as if he's being x-rayed from the inside. The demon jerks rhythmically—two times, three, once for every time Dean pushes the blade in. Sam swears he hears a soft 'phut' just before Mr. Lane goes dark and collapses to the ground.

The body lies on the floor, unmoving. Blood forms a puddle beneath his torso. Dean stares down at him with that same dead look on his face.

"Is he…" Sam can't quite bring himself to finish the question.

It's Dad who checks for a pulse. "He's alive," he announces.

It's like a switch has been flipped. Mom rushes over to the phone, dialing 911. Dean jerks out of wherever he'd gone and goes into the bathroom, probably for the First Aid kit. "Sam, blankets," Dean orders as he passes and Sam rushes to obey. He comes back to find them all looking grim. There's an old jacket of Dean's under Mr. Lane's head but it doesn't look like it's helping him to breathe, or even to be comfortable.

Sam has to get close to give Dean the blanket he pulled from the living room sofa, and he hears the former-demon, former-janitor groan. Mr. Lane sounds in seriously bad shape but he still manages to speak. "It's been a year... start of school… I couldn't move my own body."

"Shh," Dad murmurs but his hand is shaking. "Just take it easy. We're going to get you to a hospital."

Mr. Lane coughs and there's blood, bright and frothy against his pale skin. "I know some of it…. Some of the things I did."

"It wasn't you," Dad reassures him.

"Why did the demon try to kill Dean?" Sam asks because someone has to. It was supposed to be some big cage fight, Dean had said, yet the demons had tried… had taken out his brother early. That was, like, cheating, wasn't it?

Mr. Lane shakes his head, just one quick jerk. "I don… Don't know…" He coughs up more of the frothy blood and it doesn't look like he can even see them anymore. He clutches at Dad's shirt. "I have… a brother too. Find him, tell him… I didn't wanna… leave. Not my choice."

"I'll find him," Dad says and his hand is squeezing the janitor's. "We'll find him. Just hold on, man. Five minutes." The ambulance siren is a distant wail; no way the guy's going to make it.

"Ben… M'brother's name is Ben." He pulls himself up a little. "Tell'im…"

Then his grip goes, he gurgles a little, and he's just this limp pile of flesh in Dad's arms. Dead.

He's dead.

"Oh my fucking Lord and Lady!" Sam yelps. His mom whacks him on the back of the head. "But he's dead!" Sam protests because having a supernaturally dead guy in the middle of their kitchen totally justifies bad language.

"I'll go wait for the ambulance," Mom announces—although the EMTs aren't going to be able to help the guy now. "Sam, you're with me," she says and drags him out of the kitchen and away from the scene of the crime…

Holy shit! They're murderers!

"Are we murderers now, Mom?" he asks in a panic. "I mean, he's dead because of us."

"No, honey, no." Mom runs her hand over his hair. "Demons can keep the bodies of their victims alive after injuries that would kill normal people: getting hit by cars, falling from buildings. He could have been dead for months. Dean just… unplugged the machine."

In some ways Sam feels Mary's explanation is a bit of a cop-out, but it still makes him feel better about the dead guy in their house.

The ambulance shows up and he gets caught up in all of that. He follows them back into the kitchen and watches as the EMTs do the whole CPR thing with the paddles (which don't make the body arch up like on TV) and the 'kiss of life'—although they use an airbag instead of doing it mouth-to-mouth. After spending fifteen minutes trying to resuscitate Mr. Lane, the EMTs give up, declaring the janitor dead on scene, just in time for the cops to arrive. When the police ask for details about the dead guy in their kitchen, Sam admits that he was a janitor at his school, Mr. Lane.

"His eyes were funny," Sam says and the detectives frown knowingly.

"He said Sam belonged to him, said they had a destiny together," Dad growls and the frowns deepen.

"He hurt Mom," Dean says. "He wanted to hurt Sammy."

The detectives look at the bloody stripe running across her stomach and their frowns turn puzzled. The EMT's had looked at Mom's wound and declared it to be relatively shallow. They couldn't explain why the shirt was undamaged or why there was so much blood from such a superficial wound.

Sam sees the moment they decide to ignore that puzzle and return to the familiar. "So you killed him?" the younger detective asks.

Dean looks away, jaw clenching and unclenching. "He wasn't going to leave without Sam, and if it took killing all of us to get him… He would've done it." It's obvious that Dean believes it, absolutely, and with that belief, the cops' preliminary determination is of self-defense. Sam's not sure, but he thinks Dean knew exactly what effect he would have on the police.

In the middle of all the official stuff that goes into having killed a guy in their house, the schools call to report Sam and Dean absent. It's such an ordinary, everyday thing, that it makes Sam choke in hysterical laughter. Mom and Dad stand close, offering him protection and comfort, as laughter turns to tears. Huge, body-shaking sobs that leave his throat raw and his muscles sore.

They can't stay in their crime-scene of a house, so they're escorted to their rooms and watched as they each grab a bag and stuff it with clothes and toothbrushes and other necessities. Sam's pretty sure Mom and Dad get the stereotypical warning about 'not leaving town' but the cops don't say that to either him or Dean. Well… they don't say it to him. He's pretty sure they didn't say it to him but mostly all he's hearing is the 'phut, phut' the demon had made as it died, and all he can see is the flashing inside Mr. Lane, bright enough to reveal his skeleton.

"Here, Squirt, let me do that," Dean says as he takes Sam's backpack from his unresisting fingers and quickly and efficiently stuffs it with bathroom stuff and clothes. "Are you going to hurl?"

Sam stares at him.

Dean stops moving to look at him. "Sam! You going to throw up? 'Cause I'll shift you to the bathroom right now, if that's the case."

Sam pulls his wits and his stomach back into order. "No. No," he repeats. "I'll be okay."

They have to exit out the front door then go around to the garage in back. Stupid really, considering all the people who've been in and out of the kitchen, but Sam keeps his mouth shut and trails obediently behind his brother. Whatever adrenaline Sam had felt during the attack had long since drained away. Not so with Dad who's walking behind him and practically vibrating with battle-readiness. The young detective opens the garage door and checks to make sure it's clear. He also checks out the vehicles: Dad's monster truck and Mom's putzy van.

"A mini-van," Dean whispers. "She drives a mini-van?" His voice is filled with so much outraged betrayal that Sam nearly laughs.

"It's your fault for being so tall," Sam whispers back. "You don't actually fit in a compact."

Sam's not sure why that should make Dean chuckle but that's definitely what his brother is doing. He waits for Sam to get in first, putting himself between Sam and the side that opens.

"Are you okay to drive, honey?" Dad asks as Mom climbs carefully into the driver's seat. She's got an arm wrapped around her middle, but Dad's hand is splinted and wrapped so Mom just glares at him for his trouble. It makes Dad smile his sappy 'I'm so proud of you' smile and Mom's frown falls away into something equally nauseating.

Sweet Lord and Lady, Sam groans inside, they're gonna coo at each other.

Sure enough, Dad takes Mom's hand and kisses the fingers, lingering over them like they're old wine that should be savored slowly, and they kind of lean into each other.

Oh gross! They're totally going to kiss… right in front of them.

Sam looks over at his brother, expecting to share an offspring's disgust when parental units indulge in PDAs, but Dean's not looking disgusted. He looks lost and…and yearning, as if everything he's ever wanted is in the car right now, and it's almost as disturbing as Mom and Dad kissing in public. Then he remembers that Dean never had this and his eyes drop to his lap. He concentrates on twisting the strap of his bag into new and interesting shapes.

Finally, the engine starts and it signals the end of the romantic moment between Mom and Dad. Mom actually waves at the detective, still standing in their garage, watching them. Maybe he's waiting for them to leave because the cops want to search it. That's probably it. There's got to be so many holes in their story, which is all legitimate and true, but it's still huge and unbelievable. Sam would be disappointed if the cops weren't a little suspicious.

"Maybe we should call your father in after all," Dad says and breaks the silence.

"No, John." Mom shakes her head.

"He's apparently been hunting this kind of crap all his life; he might be able to figure out what we do next. From what that one said, this is a pretty big deal for the demons, and I don't know about you, but I don't want to live on the run. If your dad can help us not do that…"

Mom's still shaking her head. "Why not?" Dad finally demands.

"Because you don't want him here," she says and Dad shifts angrily in his seat, about to argue. "And I don't want him here. He will do nothing but sneer at you and tell me 'I told you so'. We don't need that." She runs a hand down Dad's cheek, thumb lingering on his chin. "I have never regretted the choice I made. It may not have all been fairy tales and unicorns but it's been honest and ours."

Great, Sam sighs. More cooing. There's a muffled sniff from beside him.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"You know, if you don't stop crying I'm going to be the one calling you a girl," Sam teases cautiously. "You'll have totally earned it, too."

It gets a weak laugh from his brother. "I'm blaming the angel. That whole 'jumping the trans-dimensional void' has to have done something to the tear ducts."

Dad turns in his seat to look at them. He focuses on Dean. "I assume, you told your brother everything." There's a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"Yes, sir," Dean answers, respectful but unapologetic. "He has a right to know."

Dad looks away, thinking, jaw working, before he nods in agreement. "You're right. If we're going to get through this then we need to be on the same page. Which means you tell us all of it." Dean opens his mouth but Dad cuts him off. "When that… that thing broke down our door, he focused on you. Talked about angels and vessels, and something that sounds suspiciously like the Apocalypse."

Sam can hear the tires on the pavement. There's a stone or something caught in one and it clicks every time it hits asphalt. His heart is pumping hard enough for him to feel the pulse in his throat without touching.

"Dean," his mother says softly but it's as much an order as Dad's harsh growl.

His brother sighs. "I only know what Cas—Castiel—told me."

"The angel?" Sam confirms.

"What angel?" Dad asks and Sam realizes that Dean had told him more than he'd told their parents.

Weird.

"Cas—Castiel—is—was—a low level soldier in Heaven's Garrison. He rescued me in the other world and, kind of, adopted us. He's the one who brought me here. When we were in the Void, he, uh… I guess 'transferred' is the best way to describe it. He transferred what he'd learned of the angels' plans to me. Everything he could think of that would help me protect myself if they ever figured out where I was."

"Even though he thought you'd be safe here?" Sam asks.

Dean chuckles and nods. "Yeah, even though. He's kind of OCD like that." Dean tells them about being the angels' vessels and how the vessel—either him or Sam—has to say yes before the angel can take possession. How the angels—Michael from upstairs and Lucifer from the basement—need physical bodies just like demons, He explains the path he and Sam—his Sam—had been guided into, in order for them to play their parts in freeing Lucifer. There's stuff about seals and angels and witches but then he backtracks to other Sam's visions. At that, they all look at him as if he's going to go into a trance right then and there, like some kind of psychic monkey.

"Well," Mom asks gently, "Have you been having visions?"

Sam squirms. He's not sure if his dreams about Dean count. "Just really vivid dreams," he hedges—truth, but not all the truth.

"Aw, Sammy's hit puberty," Dean teases and makes Sam's cheeks flame.

He punches Dean as hard as he can because Dean knows he doesn't mean that kind of dream. Dean rubs his shoulder, but he doesn't stop smiling at him. The ass even makes kissy faces at him which makes his cheeks even hotter. He glances up at his parents. Dad gives him an amused eye-roll. Mom's giving Dean an unamused eyebrow.

"That's enough of that," she says with finality.

Dean gives him a quick wink before continuing and that's when Sam realizes that Dean acted like a buttface to deflect their parents' interest in his dreams. Dean was protecting him. Sam swallows back a weepy feeling (which is totally a reaction to stress not a result of Dean's concern), and Dean goes on with his story.

He tells them how Sam—his Sam—was kidnapped and made to fight, how he got stabbed but Dean saved him. He doesn't go into specifics but, from the way he won't look at them, and the pauses he needs to get his voice under control, they all know that it wasn't simple and it wasn't pleasant. While Dean's trying to bring himself back under control, Mom goes through a drive-thru and grabs them a very late breakfast. Sam's stomach growls as the smell fills the van but he tries to cover it up because he feels somehow guilty that his body is going on with its normal routine, despite the craziness infecting their world.

He needn't have worried; everyone except Dean unwraps and begins eating as if today was the same as yesterday. He looks at his father and Dad must see the question in his face. "When you're not sure what's going to happen next, you refuel when you can." He looks at Dean as he finishes and Dean, in his newly obedient form, unwraps his breakfast bagel and takes a bite.

His brother chews and swallows carefully before continuing to talk about the demons: Meg and Azazel, and Ruby again. This time, though, Dean goes into detail about how Ruby gained his brother's trust and tricked his Sam into drinking demon's blood so he could kill Lilith and open the cage.

Again his parents look at him.

He swallows his (only partially chewed) chicken sandwich and it scrapes down his (suddenly dry) throat. "Dean's already made me promise to let him kill her." The eyes turn towards his brother.

"He has, has he?" Dry, unimpressed… Mom's being deliberately intimidating.

Except Dean's not intimidated.

"If that's what it takes to protect Sammy, to stop it then that's what I'll do."

"Why is this happening now?" Dad asks. "You said it was 2009 in your world."

"But this isn't his world," Mom points out, which is inarguable and kind of a conversation stopper so the van goes quiet again with the only sounds being Dad and Sam's steady eating. Mom's popping the occasional hash-brown into her mouth. Dean's given up even that small pretence of eating and is just sitting there with a frown on his face.

"I think I'm here because this is one of those pivotal moments, just like the one I left," Dean says softly.

"Whaddya mean?" Dad barks out.

"At that moment in time, the future could have gone in so many directions," Dean explains. "I could've arrived earlier, killed Ruby or Lilith–"

"Or been killed," Sam mutters.

Dean ducks his head in acknowledgement. "Or been killed. If we'd tried to leave earlier, Cas might've been able to grab us both. So many possibilities."

"Like now," Dad says. "If that guy had managed to take Sam–"

"If you hadn't shown up." Sam says to his brother-not brother.

"If he'd escaped to try it again."

"Or killed Mom." Dean's softly voiced suggestion causes instant quiet in the van. They've reached a Comfort Inn. They've got relatives around town they could probably stay with, but they'd likely tell Grandpa Campbell. This way they'd have another day or two before the clan found out and started butting in.

"So how do we force this timeline to do what we want?" Dad growls.

"What do we want?" Mom's response is immediate. "Aside from protecting the boys and not letting them be turned into angel condoms."

Sam stops dead. "Ew, Mom! Gross!" Parents shouldn't know about sex type things, and they really shouldn't bring them up in conversation.

Dean laughs. "Good description. Yeah, um. I'd like to avoid that." Then he smiles and unwraps his sandwich. "I think I know how."

Chapter Text

---

Mom and Dad got a suite at the Comfort Inn, and now everyone's watching Dean, waiting for him to call in his angel. This time, Sam's determined not to blink. This is an angel—a warrior of Heaven. And his brother has him on speed dial.

Not that the angel's picking up, however.

It's been nearly an hour and there's been no response to Dean's weird-assed prayers. He's been at it so long his voice is going hoarse.

"Dean," Dad says and stops the litany. He's offering a beer from the mini-bar, an unspoken symbol of their dad's recognition that this Dean isn't their Dean.

Sam wonders if asking what the hotel has on pay-per-view would be considered untactful or if they'd figure out that it's a hint that Dean should just give up already. He doesn't ask because he's not sure of his motives. He could just be bored—he probably wouldn't be the only one. Or he could want to stop Dean's plan from working because, if it does, Sam's pretty sure Dean will want to go back to his world. He wants the plan to work, he does, it's just… He likes this Dean. He wants to keep this Dean, and the longer it takes the angel to respond, the more that teeny-tiny part of him that wants this to fail, jumps up and down in happiness. The more he feels like a traitor.

Three hours later, Mom and Dad are meeting with their insurance agent and their lawyer respectively. There's still nothing from Dean's angel and Dante's Peak is on pay-per-view.

As the mountain gets ready to blow, Sam wonders if it felt something like that in Dean's world, knowing they were being used by angels and demons to fight a war nobody would win. He looks at his brother who's hunched over himself. His hair is a mess. His eyes are red. His cheeks are white, and his hands are gripped so tight that Sam can practically hear the bones popping out of their joints.

"Dean?" he says then wonders what he's thinking. All he wants to say is 'stay with me', and he wants to be selfish enough that saying it is completely okay, but he's not that selfish (not quite) and he can't say it.

He is such a wussy…

The sound of wings fills the room, and the complimentary pad of paper flutters in the breeze that shouldn't exist. It's a 'blink and you've missed it' moment because Sam looks up and Dean's angel has arrived. He doesn't look so good is Sam's first thought. The messy hair is the same, and so are the too-intense-to-be-human eyes, but his trench coat is ripped and dirty and he looks… He looks used up—to the soul and beyond.

Something's happened, Sam thinks. Something bad.

Dean doesn't seem to notice. He just jumps up, instantly alert, instantly enthusiastic. "Cas, man! Finally!"

"I am sorry it took so long."

He was probably going to say something more but Dean doesn't let him. "No worries, Cas, but I think I have a solution; a way to stop the Apocalypse in this world before it even gets started."

"Dean," the angel tries to break in. His voice is even rougher than Sam remembers.

"You have to talk to Michael and get him to let Lucifer out occasionally."

"Talk to…" Castiel tips his head as if he's got water in his ear and it's affecting his hearing. "Talk to Michael."

"Yeah, turns out the bosses of Heaven have taken off in this world, too, and so Lucifer hasn't been able to visit with the rest of the family. Needless to say, he's a tad upset."

"Dean," Cas tries to stem the flow, but angel or not, it's beyond his powers.

"So, if you can just remind Michael that it's part of his duties as caretaker of all Heaven's angels, then they won't need Sammy to open the cage and be Lucy's vessel. Easy, right?" He finally stops to take a breath.

"Dean," the angel says in gentle protest, and now Sam's worried that something's seriously, seriously wrong in Castiel's world. He sits forward, ready to interrupt but Dean's already in motion.

"Cas, you're the only one who can do this," Dean pleads. He wraps his hands over the angel's shoulders. "You can bring this Michael down here to talk to me if you like. I'm supposed to be his vessel, right? But you can tell him, if he's planning on me saying yes anytime in the next century, he's SOL. I'm not saying yes, and I'm betting Adam's not around as back-up."

"He is not."

"Well then," Dean says engagingly. "I think we've got most of the cards this time. It should work. He'll listen to you, won't he? Michael, I mean."

"It is likely that he would allow me to speak as he will be able to tell that I am not from this reality."

Sam wants to yell at Dean to shut up and let the angel speak. Sam wants the angel to go back to wherever and keep whatever nasty information he has to himself. He wants Mom or Dad, preferably both, to show up and turn this conversation to more neutral channels. He wants Dean to be happy.

Dean has no such qualms, obviously, because he's still leaning into Castiel, trying to convince his angelic friend to go along with his plan. Dean's speaking faster, grinning at the angel and touching him, and Sam recognizes it as a similar technique to the one old Dean used when he's trying to talk a girl out of her panties or a friend out of his dope. It works just as well on angels as it does on the girl or the junkie pal. Pathetic, really.

"Very well, Dean. I will go talk to Michael," Castiel finally agrees. "I will try to negotiate an arrangement that will negate the need for Sam to be involved."

"Great! That's great, man." Dean is smiling, huge and carefree. Like he's done only rarely since he arrived here. It makes some unhappy, petty part of Sam twist in frustrated anger.

"After that, we must talk," the angel says ominously but he doesn't stick around long enough for Dean to get the idea that something bad's happened.

"This is great, Sammy," Dean says. "Isn't it great? Cas talks to Michael, maybe the guy didn't realize it was his job to open the door now that the folks are gone. Maybe it'll be that easy. That would be cool, wouldn't it?" Green eyes turn and look hopefully at Sam. All Sam can do is nod in agreement as his gut goes twist, twist, twist.

"Once I know you're safe then I can go back and help rescue Sam, my Sam. I know the angels are on it and all, but frankly, they're dicks. I wouldn't put it past them to hold Sam hostage once they get him out."

Sam swallows and his Adam's apple clicks hard enough to be audible. "You could stay." Just saying it hurts. He's never felt this nervous, not even when he asked Tina Phan to the spring dance, or rather, he asked Tina Phan's dad because her family was strict like that. "I mean, even if this does work, I mean. Because…" Because he's pathetic and just the thought of losing Dean makes him feel lonely.

"Sammy… Sam," he says solemnly and just those two words tell Sam that Dean's not going to stay.

Twist, twist, twist.

"It's okay, I get it. Your Sam needs you more." He ducks away from Dean's outstretched hand. "It's cool." He turns the sound back up on the movie and lets exploding mountains drown out whatever his not-brother might have said. He's very aware that Dean's frowning down at him, probably trying to figure out what to say (emotional limpdick) but before Dean can figure it out, the angel's back.

"Cas! That was fast," Dean says and this time he actually looks at his friend. "Holy shit, Cas. What did they do to you?" Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's complete lack of awareness. He uses the motion to stop him from begging Dean to stay.

Castiel looks at his ripped coat as if seeing it for the first time. "I am uninjured."

Dean nods slowly, as if he's not sure whether to believe him but then his mind swings back to his current preoccupation. "How'd it go?" he asks. "Did you talk to Michael?"

"I did," Castiel nods slightly. "The Holy Couple have, indeed, left Michael in charge in their absence. However, they did not give him a key to Hell so he was unaware that it was required of him. He assumed that, with their parents away, Lucifer no longer desired to visit with the rest of his family and that was why they hadn't seen him."

"So Michael decided that if Lucifer didn't want to see him then he didn't want to see Lucifer either?" Castiel nods in confirmation and Dean chuckles. "I guess it doesn't matter which world we go to, your family's as messed up as any humans. I don't know if that gives me faith or takes it away."

"Dean…"

Again, his brother cuts the angel off. "But he's going to let Lucifer out, right? So the demons won't have any reason to go after Sammy here, or any of the other kids?"

"He has the Garrison looking for the key or ritual that will allow Lucifer to visit his family."

Dean shouts and pumps his fists in victory. "Yes! Cas! You are awesome." Castiel tries to break in but Dean's turning away. He practically bounces over to the couch, he's so happy, and Sam keeps a wary eye on him in case the unusual emotion makes his brother-not brother clumsy. "Did you hear that, Sammy? I mean, Sam. You're safe. You and Mom and Dad."

"What if they can't find the key, or whatever, to get Lucifer out?"

Dean stops bouncing and frowns. Castiel answers for him. "I believe Michael is sincere in his desire to see his brother and will devise an alternate strategy to allow Lucifer egress from Hell. The dynamics here are completely different than in my reality." Sam's pretty sure he's not imagining the angel's wistful look.

"That's… That's excellent, Cas," Dean says enthusiastically. "So Sammy's safe, and Mom and Dad too. And the world's not going to have an Apocalypse anytime soon, so it's all good and you can take me back, right?"

"Dean," Castiel starts and his voice is even more serious than usual.

Sam hunches down farther, trying to bury himself in the couch. He doesn't want to hear this.

"It's not that I don't appreciate this, Cas, I do, really. It was great to see what might have been, but my brother's in danger and-and I gotta be there. I have to help, Cas. I can't…"

Again the angel tries to interrupt. Again, Dean speaks first. He speaks fast; voice ragged "I can help. Even if Lucifer's been working on him, I can reach Sam, convince him to come back. I can. I have to help, Cas. I have to. I can't leave him." Sam knows Dean's close to crying. He's heard it enough in the past week since this Dean showed up on their doorstep.

Castiel hangs his head, shifting slightly away from Dean. "There's no point," he says.

"Of course there's a point," Dean argues. "He needs me."

I need you, Sam wants to say, but he doesn't, because Dean's nearly begging and that's just wrong. Instead, Sam bites his thumb and pretends to watch the movie where something's in the lake… maybe. Whatever.

"My—the Garrison decided that the only way to… equalize the combatants, was to remove Lucifer's true vessel as an option, as Michael's vessel had been removed."

Oh, sweet Lord and Lady. Sam's stomach clenches and he has to grab the seat to stop him from leaping up and going to Dean.

"You mean they took Sam to some other reality?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He just looks at Dean with his penetrating, blue eyes that are so filled with compassion that Sam aches with it. It's not even directed at him.

Dean swallows and his voice, when he speaks, is small and about six-years old. "That is what you mean, isn't it?"

"No, Dean. It is not." The angel takes a half step forward and lifts his hand as if to grab Dean's arm.

Dean backs away. "Are you telling me… that the angels killed Sam?"

Castiel's silence is all that's required to answer.

"Fucking assholes!" Dean spits. "What the fuck, man? Why?" The last question is a wail.

"Because they decided that rescuing him was neither efficient nor necessary."

"They didn't think he was worth it," Dean says bitterly. Sam's chest is tight; it's hard to breath. This is going to kill Dean.

"I am sorry, Dean," Castiel says softly. "For what it's worth, I believe they were wrong."

Dean stares at his angel and the look is beyond upset, beyond betrayed. It's empty and devastated and alone,alone,alone. "Where were you?"

Again Castiel glances away, in shame and regret, before he resolutely brings his gaze back to Dean's. His eyes aren't any happier than his brother's and Sam has to press against his own eyeballs to relieve the pressure.

"I was not told that they had located Sam, nor what they intended."

"They didn't trust you," Sam says before he can think to keep his mouth shut and those eyes turn on him.

"They had reason," Castiel states calmly and Sam hears echoes of an internal conflict that nearly pulled the angel apart. Castiel looks back at his brother and Sam feels his shoulders relax. "I will not be returning to them," he says in the same even tone. "There is nothing for us there any longer."

Sam thinks it's the finality of it that makes Dean crack. His brother's knees bend and Dean's folding himself over his stomach as if he's going to throw up. There's this high whisper of sound that's formless and nameless but endless and deep. It's Dean keening—grieving for the brother he couldn't save.

Sam's hardly aware of leaving the couch and sliding to his knees beside Dean. "Whoa, whoa, Dean. Dean! Hey! I'm here. I'm gonna take care of you. Let me look at you," he murmurs as he grabs onto Dean and starts to rock them gently. "Hey, look at me. I've got you. I'm gonna take care of you. That's my job, right? I'm gonna watch out for my pain-in-the-ass big brother, and you're going to take care of me, too. It's the way it works, right?"

He feels guilty for that teeny-tiny piece of himself that wanted this—wanted Dean for himself, forever. He wraps himself around his brother-not brother, tucks his freckled cheeks into his shoulder and holds him tight, even though Dean's lifeless except for the horrible, broken noise that Sam's not sure his brother knows he's making.

"I'm here, Dean, and I need you. I need you. You make me happy. I want to be your little brother," he says then he says it again. He'll keep saying it until Dean's okay with it, until Dean's willing to take him as a substitute for his Sam. "You took care of me," he whispers raggedly. "You saved me."

And Dean breaks.

His body convulses in huge, silent sobs and Sam's shirt gets damp—whether from tears or snot, Sam doesn't care. He just tightens his grip and doesn't say anything. He doesn't say "it'll be alright" because that's probably a lie of epic proportions. He just holds Dean and rocks him and makes wordless, soothing sounds, and hopes that, someday, he'll be enough.

Slowly, Dean's endless keening breaks up into harsh gasps and tight moans, and still Sam holds him. It's not until Sam opens his eyes that he realizes he'd closed them. Castiel's standing there. If he weren't an angel, and incapable of feeling emotions, Sam thinks he'd be crying too.

"I can make it stop hurting," Castiel offers tentatively.

"You can't make him forget Sam!" Sam protests.

The angel gives him a small smile. "I think such a thing is beyond my power."

"Damn straight it is." The words are soft and harsh.

"Dean," Sam says in acknowledgement of his return to awareness. "Cas, can you get some water… and maybe a couple Tylenol." He lifts Dean's face, examining it. The skin around Dean's eyes is red, swollen and painful looking. "And a cold, damp wash cloth!" he adds before turning his attention back to his brother-not brother-brother forever. He rubs his thumbs over half-dried tear tracks and fresh.

"Jeez, you're a mess," he says soft enough that Dean should know that Sam's not judging him.

Dean's hand comes up and grips Sam's wrist tight, holding it still, making the bones ache. "I didn't save him."

As much as he'd like to, Sam doesn't look away. "No, but he saved you." Dean's about to argue so Sam hurries on "Isn't that his right, as your brother?"

"No, no." Dean shakes his head. "It doesn't work that way."

"Sure it does." Sam takes the glass of water from Castiel and pushes it at Dean until his brother gives up and drinks it all down and the painkillers too. "You rescue him, and he rescues you right back."

"Please tell me you did not just cast yourself as Julia Roberts." Dean's voice is weak and scratchy. His eyes are red and tear-swollen. Misery clouds his too-handsome features. Weariness and defeat weigh down his shoulders. He is the complete and total opposite of the Dean he'd replaced and Sam will fight for him anyway he needs to. So he smiles mockingly as he eases his brother onto the bed.

"At least she got a bazillionaire. You had to ask me for money to buy a pop."

Dean snorts and it's a good sign—a great sign. It means Dean might eventually be okay staying here, with him.

Sam's gonna take it as a good sign.

He covers Dean with a sheet before looking at his brother's angel. Castiel obediently steps forward, fingers outstretched, and places them gently on Dean's forehead. Dean slides painlessly into sleep and Sam gives him a soft kiss. "I'll be here when you wake up." It's a promise. Even if only one of them knows it.