Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dad and Bobby had been fighting for two weeks.

It might have been longer than that, but two weeks ago was when Sam had started paying attention to it. They weren't doing it in front of him, of course; just hushed voices at night after he turned in, or raised ones that clammed up when he came in from outside or walked out from the house to the salvage yard.

And it wasn't like it was anything new for them to be fighting, but they had been trying, for Sam's sake, because he needed peace and quiet. And anyway, they were too busy taking care of him, even though he tried not to be a burden. Almost-fourteen was too old to be fussed over, but after nearly losing him, he couldn't deny neither Dad nor Bobby something that made them feel so useful.

Being weak and tired all the time, it was understandable that he had missed most of what was going on. By the time he finally noticed, it would have been obvious even to a complete outsider. But he still didn't know what they were fighting about.

He feared it was because they were staying so long at Bobby's, but when he tried to hesitantly find out if they had worn out their welcome, Bobby just snorted.

"Balls! You can stay for as long as you like, boy. My home is your home. And I'll throw in that idjit daddy of yours free of charge."

Sam had smiled, but he couldn't shake the feeling it was somehow all his fault.

So one night, after Dad and Bobby spent the day staring daggers at each other, he went upstairs to his room and got into bed but didn't close his eyes. He stared into the darkness, breathing in and out, forcing his tired and sluggish brain to solve multiple variable equations in his head so he wouldn't fall asleep.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand again and decided he had waited long enough. He got out of bed, and slowly and carefully opened the door. The house was old but well-kept; most of the doors and windows didn't creak, but you could never be too careful.

He was careful when he crawled along the hallway and stopped just by the stairs to listen. Dad and Bobby's voices drifted up; he was right to assume they would wait for him to fall asleep before going at it again.

From the sound of it, they were in Bobby's study, so he went down a few steps and settled himself in a spot where he'd be concealed by the stairwell's wall. Then he leaned his elbows on his knees and cocked his ear.

"I've looked into it, Bobby. I'll take a few days out there to make sure it's okay before I head back. It'll be fine. "

"The hell it will. It's just got wrong written all over it."

"Why? Because you wouldn't have done it?"

"You bet your ass. You don't know how it was done in the first place, you don’t know how to correct it if it goes wrong-"

"It never went wrong before."

"Right, because we have such a large test group that’s been carefully monitored for such a long time."

"Even so, you ever heard of the thing breaking? Ever heard of one of them going rogue?"

"Doesn't mean it can't happen," Bobby's angry huff drifted up into the dimness of the stairwell. "And that one, you know what he did. You know what he is. You have to be fucking insane to ever let him near Sam." Sam blinked, and leaned a little closer to the wall.

"I already told you I looked into it. Looked into it long and hard. He's not a hazard, not anymore. And I'll make sure he stays that way."

"You can't trust him worth a damn."

"I don't have to. That's what the thing's for."

"Which is literally my point. Jesus Christ, John, this can't be you talking. This can't be your own son you're going to put at risk."

Dad's voice was hard-set. "I'll never put Sam at risk."

"That's exactly what you're doing."

"I'm keeping him safe."

"He'll be safe if he stays here."

"We've been over this-"

"We've been going around in circles, is what we've been doing. He's comfortable here, I'll take care of him. He'll be better off."

Sam could hear Dad's sigh. "I appreciate the offer, I do. But the boy belongs with me."

"John, if you just listen to reason-"

"I'm doing it, Singer. Tomorrow."

There was a moment of silence, and Bobby growled, "Balls."

"If you don't want me to bring him here-"

"You're crazier than I imagined if you think I won't take a long hard long look of my own at him before I even consider letting him so much as breathe near Sam."

Dad's voice was quieter now. "You and me both, Bobby. And thanks."

This time Sam could barely hear it when Bobby muttered, "Balls."

There was no more talking after that, just clanking of beer bottles, and Sam retreated silently back into his room and into his bed and lay awake for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Bobby had a great breakfast made, like he always did, but Sam could only peck at his plate. His ears were still ringing with the things he had heard last night.

I'm doing it, Singer. Tomorrow.

Whatever they were talking about, whatever had kept them so on edge for the past weeks, today he was going to find out what it was.

Dad had been tinkering with the Impala all morning and came in a little while after Sam had settled in Bobby's study with a book. Sam looked up at him when he walked into the study and let the book drop onto his lap. Dad pulled a chair in front of the couch and sat down. He studied his hands for a minute, and then looked at Sam. A light smile hovered over his lips.

"How're you doing today, Sammy?"

"I'm fine," he wasn't, not really; that is, he wasn't too tired or too weak, but he was anxious to the point he felt like he was about to scream.

"Good," Dad glanced back at his hands, and then took a breath, straightened up and fixed his eyes on Sam. "Have you ever heard about the collared ones?"

Sam shook his head no.

"I never wanted you to have too much contact with other hunters beside Bobby and Pastor Jim, not while you're so young, so you don't really know what they're like. We're a community. True, most of them are solitary by choice, and they don't really care for social visits and Christmas cards, but the grapevine is top notch. They know what's what and who's who, and they stick together. If a hunter needs help, if they need protection, they'd have it. And also if they need revenge. Or to be avenged."

This was far more information than either Dad or Bobby or Pastor Jim had ever shared with Sam, and he found himself fascinated.

"We stay out of the authorities' way. We take care of our own, we take care of our business in private. Most of the hunters are good men and women, but sometimes you'll have a few that go bad, that do harm. If they hurt civilians, then we let the authorities handle them like they would any other civilian. But if they harm one of our own… we keep it private."

Dad paused, and Sam ventured to thread in a word. "Harm, like what? Like beat somebody up?"

Dad chuckled. "We don't really care about scuffles. Hell, having at each other every now and again can even be therapeutic. It certainly beats holding a grudge. And thefts are also something you can resolve on your own. No, I mean more serious things than that. Severe injuries. Child molesting. Rape." He paused again. "Murder."

A chill ran down Sam's spine, but he held still and kept his gaze on his father. Dad's eyes trailed to the window and then returned to Sam.

"It's rare, but it happens. And we don't want the authorities involved, because it could jeopardize the rest of us; we have to take care of it ourselves. We don't have jails, obviously, and you can't allow somebody like that to just go free. So for those serious offenses, we alert elders like Bobby, assemble a field court martial, and get an efficient trial done. Then we execute the guilty. Fast and mostly painless, and then a hunter's funeral, and it's done. This was the only sentence possible, until about thirty years ago."

"What happened then?" Sam could barely hear his own voice.

"An old hunter found an Egyptian binding spell. It was ancient and hadn't been known for centuries, but he tried it and it worked. He experimented with it, and at last came up with the collar."

"A collar? Like for dogs?"

"Something of the sort," Dad seemed like he wanted to smile, and then changed his mind. "It's a two-parts magic artifact, a collar and a bracelet. When you put the collar on a person, he or she is bound to the person who wears the bracelet. They can't take it off, and they can't leave by their own will."

Exactly like a dog collar, Sam thought. "But they can just kill the person who wears the bracelet and get away, can't they?"

Dad shook his head. "They can't lift a finger against the person with the bracelet. If they try, the collar stops them."

"Like a shock collar."

"Yeah, like that," Dad seemed pleased with Sam for coming up with the simile, but it only made Sam feel sick.

"So what, it's like a jail? A portable jail, being chained to a person instead of being inside a cell?"

"You see, Sam, these people committed a crime, but they are still hunters, most of them very capable ones. We don't have so many of those that we can afford to lose them when there are so many monsters to fight out there. Inside a cell a hunter is useless. But if you let them stay outside, they can help the rest of us. They can hunt. They can save people. And they can redeem themselves, maybe. Repent. Other hunters can use them to get their jobs done, knowing the collared person will never leave, never turn against them, will always try to save them first. And in time, they might rehabilitate enough to have the collar removed. They have time and opportunity to demonstrate that they deserve to live."

It sounded reasonable. It even sounded like this system could be more humane than execution or a life in prison. But it still made Sam uneasy.

"So the person with the bracelet-"

"They're called sponsors."

"The sponsors. Are they in jail too? I mean, they're bound to the collared person, aren't they?"

"Not so much. They don't have any limitations or anything. And if you don't want to sponsor a collared one anymore, you pass the bracelet on to another hunter. That's actually how it's done; sponsors usually don't keep a collared one more than a few weeks or so. We're solitary, as I said," Dad smiled warmly at him. "This doesn't go for family, Sammy. I hope you'd like to stay with me even when you're older."

Sam returned the smile. "How many of them are there? Collared ones, I mean."

"Hardly any. There were only a handful of cases in the years since the collars have been put into use. Those kind of crimes among hunters is rare."

Sam sat there, the book still in his lap. He let his eyes drop to it for a minute. New Orleans Voodoo and Other African-Originated Magick in Louisiana. "They're like slaves," he whispered.

"What?"

Sam looked back up at his father. "The collared ones. They're slaves."

Dad shifted a bit in his seat. "Don't think of it that way, Sammy. They're criminals. The worst type of criminals. They should have been executed, for everybody's sake, but they're given a second chance. It's more like community service."

"But they can't leave the sponsor. They have to obey the sponsor. They can't defend themselves against the sponsor if they hurt them. I bet they can't even tell anybody if it happens because otherwise the sponsor wouldn't give them a recommendation, or whatever they give, in favor of their release. And they wear a collar."

Dad sighed. "The sponsors aren't a bunch of evil slave-owners. And even if they were, they need the collared ones healthy and fit for hunting. Anyway, the hunters put on trial are given a choice when they're convicted. They can choose death. Some of them have. The ones choosing the collar, they know what they're agreeing to. And it's not like they deserve any better; it's noble of you to think about their well-being, but you're forgetting their victims. You're forgetting they're being punished."

"The Eighth Amendment forbids cruel and unusual punishments."

"The Founding Fathers never considered having to fight so many supernatural creatures so all the unsuspecting civilians will be able to live in the Land of the Free," Dad propped his elbows on his knees and leaned a little toward Sam. "It's not a perfect system, but it's means to an end, and our end is saving people. It requires all hands on deck, and sometimes, some of those hands need to be shackled. You understand this, Sam?"

"Yes, sir," Sam dropped his gaze again, lifted it. "Why are you telling me this?" But he knew why even before Dad answered.

"Because I'm becoming a sponsor. I'm taking a collared one in."

Chapter Text

Dad had been gone for five days now.

He had explained to Sam that he was meeting the current sponsor in North Dakota, where he would stay for a few days to watch how the collared one conducts himself on hunts and off, then only when he was sure he could handle his new charge, he would bring him back to Bobby's.

Sam felt dazed; to learn of the hunters' extreme penal system and to find out his own father was going to take part in it was almost too much.

"I'm doing it for us, Sammy. For you," Dad had said.

"I don't want you doing something like that for me," Sam could feel his voice almost choking.

Dad had looked at him, sadness in his eyes.

"We can't stay at Bobby's forever. We need to get out on the road again, and I want you with me. But you're still not well. I don't want to leave you alone in motels and rental homes while I go out to hunt, not when you're like this. And it's not as if I can get you a babysitter, now, can I?" He smiled a little, but the sadness in his eyes lingered. "There's no babysitter that can protect you against ghosts and rawheads and vampires, but a hunter can. A hunter that will never leave you, never hurt you. And he can help you train little by little, until you're recovered."

"But you said… you said the collared ones are criminals. How can you trust one of them to watch me?"

"I don't have to trust him," Dad echoed the words he had said to Bobby the night before. "That's what the collar's for. You'll have a bracelet of your own, you'll be safe."

"Then I'll be a slave-owner, too," Sam mumbled.

Dad grimaced for a second. "More like a parole officer. A minute ago, you were worried that the collared ones aren't treated well. Now think about how you have a chance to treat one of them fairly. Don't you want that?"

Sam had stared down at his hands, and Dad leaned further and lifted his chin up.

"I'll never force you into anything, Sammy. I'm going to check this collared one out very carefully before I take him in. And when I bring him here, you'll have some time to check him out yourself. If after that you don't want me to keep him, I'll find another sponsor for him. I'll do whatever you're comfortable with. Does that sound okay?"

It was a lot to take in, and Sam wasn't sure he was able to process it yet. But Dad was waiting for an answer, so he nodded, and Dad smiled and patted his cheek.

As Dad rose from his seat, Sam asked, "What did he do? I mean, what was he collared for?"

Dad looked at him solemnly for a moment before replying, "Murder."

He was gone within the hour.

Bobby came to sit with him after the Impala's rumble had died down. "I ain't gonna tell you I'm liking this idea of your daddy's," he said. "But it's pretty much a done deal with him."

"You're not liking it because you think having a collared one around is dangerous, or because it's a sort of slavery?"

Bobby seemed surprised by this observation. "Hell, boy, I don't even know. All I know is my gut's tossing and turning about it." He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "It ain't 'Roots' or nothing like it, you have to stop seeing it like it's the same. Those are criminals that even the civilian courts would've put on death row, they don't deserve better. And as far as dangerous goes," he shrugged. "I'd never tell John Winchester to his face that he's right, but he is on that front; the collar is strong magic. There was never a collared one that could break it, as seasoned and wise hunters as they were. And this one's young, only about eighteen or so. He couldn't even dream up a counter spell."

"Eighteen?" Sam's interest sparked. "And he committed murder? When?"

Bobby was startled a bit, and Sam regretted not moderating his voice some. But the hunter replied, "I'm not really supposed to talk to you about it, Sam. He was collared two years ago, so he committed the murder at sixteen, which is pretty screwed up however you look at it. But your dad asked around, and none of his sponsors had any trouble with him. Your daddy would never even consider it if there was any suggestion he wouldn't behave. And he's a very talented hunter, I've been told. Having someone like that around could be useful."

Sam nodded, slowly. "Who did he murder?"

Bobby turned his eyes away from Sam and his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. He tightened his lips, then loosened them. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped. "His father."

Sam slept very little that night.

Yet as the days passed, he found himself actually hoping that his dad would find the collared one acceptable and bring him in; he was frightened and still a little shocked, too, but he was so curious he could hardly contain it. The whirlwind of contradictory emotions both drained him and filled him with a weird sort of energy. He thought that if he had to wait just one more day, he would burst.

It was then that Dad called to say he would be at Bobby's in a few hours.

"I want you to go to your room when you see me coming, Sam," he said. "And I want you to stay there until I put the bracelet on you. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," and when the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine came from outside, Sam scurried up the stairs and sat on his bed, heart beating so hard his entire body was shaking. He sat there, staring at the floor, trying to listen to whatever went on downstairs.

He heard the front door open, but it didn't close for a long while; Bobby must have stepped outside to "take a long hard look of his own", like he promised he would. He was probably satisfied enough, because the front door closed, and Sam heard his father's footsteps climbing the stairs.

Even though he knew Dad wasn't bringing the collared one up with him, his heart gave a lurch when the door opened. Dad came in and held his arms wide open for Sam. Sam went to him, letting himself be wrapped by that smell of leather and whiskey and gunpowder, the smell that was comfort and family and home.

"How've you been, Sammy?" Dad whispered, his breath warm on Sam's ear.

"I'm good, I really am."

Dad patted his back, sat him back down on the bed and knelt next to him.

"Okay. So, I have my bracelet," he held out his right wrist for Sam to inspect; there was a thin silver cord encircling it with no apparent clasp. Sam touched it gingerly, but it felt like any other metal, cool and smooth. "Here's yours." He showed Sam a short length of silver cord. This one had no clasp, either.

"How do you close it?"

"The spell closes it, and there's an incantation for opening it. But the sponsor wearing it can just rip it off. No one else can," he added reassuringly. "You ready, kiddo?"

Sam nodded, and then added, "Yes, I'm ready." He tried to hold out his right hand and was alarmed when it didn't obey at first. Then it rose to where Dad held the bracelet.

Dad draped the bracelet gently over Sam's wrist and started chanting. It wasn't Latin or any other language Sam recognized; it must have been ancient Egyptian. The cord stayed still at first, and then suddenly jerked like a tiny silver snake. Sam nearly jolted, but Dad held his arm steady. Within seconds, the cord twisted, closed onto itself, and went still.

Sam brought his wrist closer to his face to examine the bracelet. It was a perfect loop with no sign of the place where the cord's tails met. It was snug against his skin so it couldn't be slipped off his hand, but he hardly felt it.

Dad patiently let him fidget with it for a bit, until Sam dropped his hand and looked at him.

"You want to go downstairs now?" Dad asked softly.

Sam took a breath, and then another one. Then he nodded.

Chapter Text

The collared one wasn't what Sam expected him to be.

To be honest, Sam didn't really know what he expected the collared one to be like. Knowing he was a murderer – one who committed patricide – created a sort of an image in his mind's eye; he was perhaps anticipating crazy-looking eyes rolling over a foaming mouth, and maybe a badly-healed scar to boot. The collared one didn't have crazy-looking eyes, nor a foaming mouth, and not even a badly-healed scar.

Instead, there were apple-green eyes, spiky blond hair and sunny freckles sprinkled over a face that would have looked at home on a boy-band poster, or amongst the cast of a day-time soap-opera, the kind Bobby would never admit to have been watching.

Sam felt Dad's hand on his shoulder and ventured into the study. The collared one stood next to Bobby, who seemed prepared to tackle him if he tried to make even the slightest suspicious move. Sam's eyes were drawn to the boy's neck; like its bearer, the collar wasn't what Sam expected it to be. It wasn't a thick iron band or a leather choker, but a thin silver cord exactly like the bracelets he and Dad now wore. It was resting around the base of the neck, over the collarbones, looking like an innocent necklace. But although it appeared like one hard tug could tear it off, Sam remembered it was not possible. Not for the one wearing it.

Sam stopped a few feet away from the boy. He was tall, maybe only an inch or so shorter than Dad, which meant the top of Sam's head barely reached his shoulder and Sam had to tilt his face up to look at him. The collared one returned the gaze steadily, but remained silent.

Dad gave Sam's shoulder a quick squeeze before saying, "This is Dean. Dean, this is Sam, my son." The last word was stressed a little, just enough to make the hierarchy clear to the collared one.

Dean's eyes had turned immediately to Dad when he started to speak, and then shifted back to Sam. He still didn't say a word, and Sam realized he was waiting for him to talk first. He cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Hi," it was soft-spoken, as if Dean wasn't sure he should have been speaking in the first place. Sam could see him glancing at Dad again, probably trying to judge if he had done well.

"Sam, I know you want to be sure that the collar works and that you're protected," Dad said.

"I'd like to be sure, too," Bobby growled, giving Dean a nasty sideway glance. Dad turned to face the kitchen and motioned Dean in front of him while Sam scooted to Bobby's side.

"I've tried it, and I'll show it to you now. See what happens when he takes a swing at me," with that, Dad gestured at Dean, and before Sam could even blink, Dean swirled into motion, his right fist thrown forward in the direction of Dad's face.

It never landed. Almost as fast as he moved, Dean was suddenly jerked back, like a dog being pulled by a leash. Dad waited for him to regain his balance and said, "Again."

Dean went for a left hook this time, performed exactly how Dad had always showed Sam it should be done, and was shoved away by the spell's power. He nearly tipped over but managed to keep his footing.

Dad eyed him. "Again."

This time, when the collar pulled Dean back, Sam thought he heard a low groan, but Dean was already straightening up, ready to start over. Dad turned away from him.

"You see how it works, Sam?" He asked. Sam nodded, speechless. "Good. Do you think you'd like to take my place now?"

Sam didn't want to, not really. He felt sick to his stomach. Yet he knew Dad wanted him to, and it was best to just get it over with. He nodded.

"Good boy. Stand right here," Dad directed him to stand before him, his hands resting on Sam's shoulders from behind. Dean was in front of them with his hands half-raised, watching Dad intently.

Sam couldn't see when Dad gave a sign and flinched as Dean launched himself at him. He could feel a tingle on his wrist at the same instant Dean was hurled back, nearly all the way into the kitchen. He steadied and leaned for a moment with his hands on his thighs, and Sam thought he saw him reaching briefly to touch his throat.

Sam looked up at Dad. "It's… it's okay, Dad. I believe you it's safe."

Dad studied him for a long moment. "You're sure?"

Sam glanced at Dean, who was again standing quietly with his hands at his sides. His face was expressionless, but Sam could see a thin, almost invisible line of pain around his mouth. He looked back at Dad. "I'm sure."

"Okay then," Dad removed his hands from Sam's shoulders, and Sam peeked at Dean to see a brief yet definite look of relief cross his features. Dad turned so he could face Sam and bent down some. "Would you like to talk to him for a few minutes? See what you think of him? Bobby and I will be in the kitchen."

Sam nodded, and Dad smiled and straightened up. Sam went to the couch and sat down. Dean looked at him, and then at Dad, who gave him a nod.

As Dad and Bobby went out of the study and into the kitchen, Dean moved hesitantly toward the couch and stood next to it. Even though Sam was even shorter now while he was sitting down, Dean somehow made it seem like he was the one looking up at Sam.

"You can sit down," Sam was surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Dean took a seat on the other end of the couch, as far away from Sam as he could. Sam knew Dean couldn't possibly be afraid of him; he probably didn't want to look like he was posing a threat. He was staring down at his hands, and Sam was wondering what to say. How do you even begin a conversation with a boy who had murdered his father at sixteen and was sentenced to slavery by means of a magic collar?

"This must be weird for you."

Sam startled as Dean spoke, and the older boy looked up. He studied Sam for a second, as if making sure he was fine with Dean talking before he went on, "But I'll stay out of your way, you won't even know I'm here. I won't be any trouble."

"That's not-" all of a sudden Sam could feel how much power Dean was attributing him; all it took was for Sam to say one word to his father, and Dean would be passed on to the next sponsor like a pet that proved to be too troublesome to handle. He didn't want that power. He didn't want to be the reason for the anxiety he could sense almost radiating off Dean. He took a breath and tried to make his voice as natural as he could. "I don't think you'll be trouble, and I don't need you to stay out of my way. Most of the time it's just my dad and me, so yeah, it's weird, to have another person with us when we're on the road again. That's all."

Dean gave a nod but didn't say anything, making Sam feel obligated to go on.

"We've been here for half a year now, but that's really the longest we've stayed anywhere. I was in the hospital for almost two months with a really bad case of Mono, and I haven't bounced back since. Dad doesn't want to stay anymore, but he doesn't want me to be alone when he goes hunting because he doesn't think I'm strong enough to defend myself." He hesitated for a bit before adding, "Doesn't think I'm strong enough to hunt with him."

He thought he saw sympathy in Dean's eyes, but the older boy still said nothing. He might have been waiting for a direct question.

"Did my dad tell you? That this was what he wanted you for?"

"To protect you, yes. To help you train. But it's your call," Dean looked down and then up again. "I just… I just hope you'll give me a chance to prove myself." Dean wasn't pleading, not exactly, but it was too close for comfort, and Sam shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Why wouldn't I give you a chance? I mean, I don't even know you."

"You know what I am," Dean said quietly. "But I wouldn't hurt you."

"You can't," but Sam felt a little shudder rolling down his spine.

"I can't," Dean agreed. "But I wouldn't if I could. You have no reason to believe me, but it's the truth."

"I believe you," and strangely, he did. This boy was a convicted murderer – convicted by the hunters' community standards, anyway – that Sam had met for the first time less than fifteen minutes ago, but he believed him.

Dean nodded. "I appreciate it, sir." Sam nearly choked.

"Did you just call me 'sir'?"

"You're a sponsor." you're a slave-owner

"I'm a kid."

"Doesn't matter."

This was too awkward. "Well, do you have to call me that? Is it like in the rules or something?"

"It's not a rule. That's how the sponsors like it to be."

"I don't. It's too… don't do it. It's just Sam. Okay?"

For a minute Sam thought Dean was going to smile, but he didn't. "Okay. Sam."

"Ready for dinner?" Dad was standing in the doorway, looking over from Sam to Dean.

"Yeah," Sam got to his feet and Dean followed suit. He wondered how he didn't notice the smell of Bobby's beef stew before, but it hit him now, making his mouth water.

Sam went into the kitchen and sat down at what became his usual place, with Dad beside him. Bobby brought the steaming pot to the table and sat down. Sam looked at the fourth chair, which remained empty, and then turned to find Dean standing at the doorway by the wall, stare fixed on the floor.

Sam turned his eyes to Dad. "Dean's not eating with us?" It felt even more ridiculous when he said it out loud.

"Depends on you two," Dad replied. "It's Bobby's house, and you… well, whatever you're comfortable with."

"It's okay by me," Sam said. He sure as hell wouldn't be comfortable eating his dinner with Dean standing there like some kind of a sentinel.

Bobby raised his voice, "Sit your ass down already, boy. Stew's getting cold."

Dean looked up, and Sam could see him glancing at Dad, undoubtedly waiting for the nod that made him leave his post by the wall and join the table.

The food was tasty as always, and Dad and Bobby were sharing old hunting stories and laughing. Sam watched Dean between bites; he was eating slowly, carefully, like he wanted to wolf down everything he was given but held back. Dean finished wiping his bowl down with the last of his bread, and then just sat there, eyes down.

Sam looked at the bowl that was so clean it seemed like it wouldn't need washing later, and then at Bobby. The older hunter was glancing sideways at Dean's empty bowl. Sam saw his mouth tighten for a moment before he huffed, "Balls. You can have more if you're still hungry. There's plenty."

Dean raised his eyes to Dad, and Sam felt his throat clenching; was Dean really not allowed to eat without permission from his sponsor? What if a sponsor denied him permission, was it okay to just let him starve?!

Dad, however, wasn't going to let him starve. "You can eat all you want."

"Thank you, sir," Dean's quiet response was almost drowned by the noise Bobby made as he scraped the pot with the ladle to pour Dean more stew; he filled the bowl up to the brim.

After dinner Sam sat with Dad and Bobby in the study – he was willing to help Dean do the dishes and clean the kitchen, but Dad ushered him out – the grown-ups with their third or fourth beer, and Sam with a soda. Dad finally had time to listen to what Sam had been up to while he was gone, which was basically books and TV; he wasn't strong enough for long walks or physical activities, although he did go with Bobby to town to do the shopping.

Sam liked these moments when his dad's attention was on him, a light smile playing on his lips and his eyes soft and attentive. While they were still on the road, before he got sick, those moments weren't something he took for granted, not with Dad leaving him alone so much to go investigate cases and then hunt down the creature he was after. It occurred to Sam that he wouldn't be alone from now on.

He glanced up to see Dean at the doorway; he didn't hear him and now wondered how long the other boy had been standing there, unnoticed. Dean was apparently very good at going unnoticed.

Dad also caught sight of Dean, then reached to pat Sam's cheek. "Time for bed now, Sammy."

"Okay," Sam got to his feet along with Dad. He could see Dean tensing a little at their movement. Dad turned to him.

"The first work shed, wait for me there."

"Yes, sir," Dean was out the door in a heartbeat, and Dad turned back to Sam.

"You know that on the road you'll be sleeping with Dean in the same room. Would you like to try it tonight so you can start getting used to it? Any time you want, just tell him to leave and he'll sleep in the study. But I'd like you to try all the same. How about it?"

Sam had thought about it during the days he waited for Dad to come back with the collared one. Having somebody with him at night wouldn't be half bad. It wasn't like he was a scared little kid, but these past months his nightmares were worsening. It was fine when Dad and Bobby were in the house, but he didn't want to think about waking from a nightmare alone in the middle of the night in some cheap motel in a strange town.

"I'll try," he said, and Dad smiled and stroked his hair.

"That's my boy. Go get ready for bed, I need to attend to a little matter with Dean, and then I'll bring him up."

Sam went upstairs and through his routine, brushed his teeth, changed into his pajamas. He checked his medicine bag; he had sleeping pills which he took if he felt the onset of nightmares, and he was deliberating whether he should take them now. He decided to wait for Dean to come up.

He settled in his bed with a book but found himself reading the same paragraph over and over again and realized he couldn't wait for Dean to come. It was odd. Why would he want to share a room with a murderer? But he did. He wanted to share a room with another boy, like kids who had siblings or slept over at friends' houses. Normal kids. So okay, Dean was older than him and wasn't exactly normal, either, but it was something nonetheless.

At last he heard footsteps outside. There was a knock on the door, and Sam called, "Come in."

Dad opened the door and walked in, Dean at his heels. Sam sat up as Dad took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Any headaches, Sam? Do you need your pills?"

"No, sir."

Dad smiled and reached to cup the back of Sam's head. "Goodnight, then. Remember what I said, if you don't want Dean here, just say so. Okay?"

"Okay."

Dad leaned in, touched his lips briefly to Sam's forehead and settled him back under the comforter. Then he got up and went out, closing the door behind him.

Dean remained standing by the door, holding a ragged old duffle. Not that Sam knew Dean so well by now, but he thought something was off about him; as docile as he was before, he looked practically subdued now, and his eyes seemed a little red.

"Uh… Bobby got a cot out for you."

Dean looked at it, then back at Sam. "I'll just change. Is that okay?"

"Sure," if they were going to live together, he would have to make Dean quit asking permission for everything he did, as if the entire situation wasn't weird enough as it was.

He tried to keep his eyes averted while Dean changed – really just swapping his worn jeans for equally worn sweatpants and taking off his tattered flannel – but his attention was drawn to the way Dean moved. He saw the older boy's fluid motion when Dad performed his little demonstration of the collar's power. That effortless agility was gone now; Dean was straining to carry himself as usual, but Sam knew a thing or two about pain.

I need to attend to a little matter with Dean

"Dean," he said, and the other boy halted immediately to look at him. "What… what did my dad do to you?"

There was a hint of fear in Dean's face. "Nothing."

"It's not nothing," Sam sat up. "Something's wrong."

"Everything's fine," but the fear was deepening. "I'm fine."

"You're not. I can tell," Sam shoved the comforter aside. Dean flinched back, and Sam stilled with his legs off the bed. Yes, something was definitely wrong, and it was clear that Dean wasn't going to spill on his own. As much as Sam didn't want to be ordering Dean around, he had to use whatever device he had available. "Take your shirt off."

Dean hesitated only for a second before reaching his hands over his head to grab the back of his shirt and pull it off. Sam examined Dean's naked torso, noting the lean, chiseled muscles and the thin white scars that the light wasn't good enough to show clearly. He also noted Dean didn't seem malnourished.

They need the collared ones healthy and fit for hunting

"Turn around."

Dean looked at him pleadingly, but Sam held his gaze, and Dean tightened his lips and turned his back on Sam.

Even with the dim light, Sam nearly gasped. Dean's back was a solid mass of blazing crimson from his shoulders to his waist, striped with thin purple lines. Sam could feel his dinner threatening to come back up his throat.

"Did he hit you anywhere else?" He managed at last.

"Just my back."

Sam narrowed his eyes even though Dean wasn't able to see it. "Do I need to make you strip?"

"No, si- Sam. It's just this. I'll strip if you want me to, but it's just this."

Like this wasn't enough. "Sit down."

Dean turned and sat on the cot facing Sam with his head down and his shoulders hunched as if he was preparing to take a hit. Another hit.

That Dad was never one to spare the rod, Sam knew from bitter experience; it wasn't often, but he did get spanked a few times and it hurt like hell, even though Dad had only used his hand. He used more than his hand on Dean, though, and he wasn't holding back when he did it. Not with how Dean's back looked like one huge, horrific bruise.

"Why?" Sam forced his voice to remain calm. He was mad, but he didn't want Dean to think he was mad at him.

"He was setting the rules. All the sponsors do it on the first night, but your dad wanted me to meet you first."

"Setting the rules? What rules? Is beating you for no reason a rule?!" Sam was trying hard to control his rage, but he couldn't quite make it.

"There's a reason."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Dean raised his eyes. "Like making sure I knew what I'd get if I screwed up."

For a whole minute the simple action of pushing air out of his lungs and moving his mouth to form words was an impossible mission for Sam. Doing a thing like that as a warning was inconceivable, and as strict as Dad was, Sam just couldn't believe he would be this cruel.

Dean watched him as Sam tried to regain control. "It's okay," he said. "He's protecting you, as he should. I'm dangerous."

"How dangerous can you be with that collar?" Sam's voice was shaky, but at least he was able to talk again. Dean shrugged, wincing a little with the motion.

"They have the spell figured out enough to use it, but they don't fully understand it. It might malfunction. Or I might find a way to bypass it."

Even with all the hot rage still flowing through him, there was an icy finger trailing down Sam's back. "You said you wouldn't hurt me."

"I wouldn't," there was strange softness in Dean's eyes.

Sam took a breath and stood up. "I'll be right back. You can put the shirt on if you want. If it doesn't hurt." He suspected that Dean would wear the shirt even if it did hurt, so Sam wouldn't have to look at his back. But there was only so much he could try and do for the other boy, at least for now.

Dean was indeed dressed again when Sam came back, and he stared at what Sam held out to him. "I shouldn't-"

"Bullshit."

"Your dad wouldn't allow it."

"My dad's not here."

Dean's voice was trembling. "Please, just let it go. You weren't supposed to know about it. I don't want any trouble. Please, Sam."

Sam had half a mind to order Dean to take the pill he had brought him, but he had enough of ordering for one day. "Look at me," he said, as gently as he could. Dean raised his eyes. "It's just one pill. It wouldn't even fully get rid of the pain, it'll just take the edge off for a few hours. So you can sleep. So I can sleep. One pill. Okay?"

Dean looked at him for a long moment, and then, very gingerly, reached for the pill in Sam's palm. He washed it down with the water from the glass Sam had brought. Sam smiled at him and put the glass on the nightstand, then climbed back to bed.

While he tucked himself under the covers, he listened for the rustling noises that assured him Dean was doing the same. After he settled down, he glanced over at the cot. Dean was lying on his belly, his face turned toward Sam.

"Goodnight," Sam said.

"Goodnight," Dean whispered back. Sam couldn't be sure, but he thought Dean's face looked smoother now, like some of the stress had lifted. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

The nightmare came. It was the same one, with his mother shrieking as she burned in their old house in Lawrence, and his father rushing into the fire and burning as well. And horrible, evil yellow eyes and voices that breathed dark things into his ear, dark things that he was on the verge of understanding, but refused to. He was trying to fight the sights away, trying to scream for help, but there was blackness all around him, thick and suffocating.

And then he was wrapped by a strong, warm presence, and the darkness retreated, just a little, but enough. The voices were still chanting their awful things, but now there was another voice overpowering them, one of light and mercy, that encased Sam in a tiny cocoon, safe and secured.

"It's okay, Sam, everything's okay. It's just a bad dream. I'm here, nothing's gonna hurt you."

And he slept.

Chapter Text

It was full light outside when Sam woke up, and he stretched and blinked at the sunlight streaming through the window. He had slept better last night than he had for a long while, which should have been weird, considering it was the first time he had shared a room with a strange boy, who also happened to be a murderer and a slave.

Sam turned his head to see Dean sitting on his cot, already dressed, his hair a little damp and glistening in the sunlight. He looked up as Sam moved in his bed.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," Sam yawned and stretched some more. "What time is it?"

"A little past eight," Dean dropped his eyes for a moment and then tentatively looked up again. "I… I went ahead and used the bathroom. Is that okay?"

"Of course it is," Sam sat up and looked intently at the older boy. "Did the other sponsors really do that? Make you ask permission to eat or to use the bathroom, or whatever?"

"Most of them."

"Did my dad tell you you need to ask permission?"

Dean shifted a bit. "He didn't say, and I don't… I can't take the chance."

He was setting the rules

Sam could feel rage starting to boil again and forced it back. He swung his legs off the bed and leaned a little forward, fixing his gaze on Dean. "Then I'm telling you now. You don't need to ask permission for things like that. Not when you're with me. You understand?"

"Yes, si- Sam."

It was a start.

Bobby had waited for them to come down before throwing the bacon into the frying pan. Soon the kitchen filled with delicious smells, and Bobby had Dean set the table, making sure he was setting it for the four of them.

Dad came in through the back door and smiled at Sam. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, actually, I did." I'm here, nothing's gonna hurt you

"No nightmares?"

"A little. But it went away."

Dad tousled his hair and sat at the table.

Bobby and Dean brought the food out and also sat down, Dean glancing cautiously at Dad to see if he approved and seeming to relax when Dad paid him no attention.

Sam waited for everybody to take their seats before taking a pill out of his pocket and placing it on the table in front of Dean.

"For your back," he said. Dean stared at the pill and then at Sam, his eyes wide and his face pale as a sheet. It was more than terror; Sam could also see hurt in his stare. Dean was sure Sam was selling him out, letting Dad know he disobeyed and told Sam about the beating.

Sam turned his eyes to Dad. "He didn't want to tell me. I made him. I made him show me what you did to him."

"Sam-" Dad started, but Sam wouldn't have it.

"You're gonna tell me it was necessary, aren't you? You're gonna tell me that all the sponsors do it, that this is how it's done. But it's not. It's wrong. He didn't do anything."

"That's not true, Sam," Dad said, but much softer than Sam expected. "He committed murder. He took a life. He should have been executed."

"But he wasn't."

"No. And as long as he's allowed to live, he needs to be kept in line. He needs to know the rules."

"He knows the damned rules, Dad! He didn't even eat before you gave him permission, for crying out loud!" He turned to Dean. "Get up." As soon as Dean was on his feet, Sam stood too, took a hold on Dean's arm and turned him with his back to the table, then grabbed the hems of his shirt and flannel and swooped them up. He could feel the little wince Dean gave and knew it hurt him, but he had to go through with it.

"Tell me this was necessary," he said, feeling his voice trembling and not caring. "Tell me that's how you're keeping him in line. Tell me this was just teaching him the rules."

Sam watched Dad as he examined Dean's back. His face might have seemed expressionless, but Sam knew him well enough to notice the way the little lines around his eyes and mouth deepened. Sam stole a glance at Bobby. The older hunter was much less subtle; he was gaping at the darkening bruises, his eyes shocked and disbelieving. Sam could feel the way Dean was nearly hyperventilating next to him. Sam couldn't really blame him for being horrified; he probably thought it was only a matter of minutes before he would be marched back to the work shed. Sam softened his voice.

"You said you've brought him for me, and if that's so, then I don't want things like that done on my behalf. Not ever, Dad."

There was a long silence, and at last Dad spoke. "Let him sit down, Sam."

Sam let go of Dean's shirts and nudged him gently back to his seat. Dean was half-frozen with fear; he sat with his head tucked between his hunched shoulders like he wanted to curl into himself. Dad reached for the pitcher and poured some water into Dean's glass.

"Take the pill," he said. With apparent difficulty, Dean raised his eyes, face filled with dread. "Take it. It's okay."

Slowly, carefully, Dean's fingers crawled over the table to grab the pill. He swallowed it and put the glass back down with a shaky hand. Dad looked up at Sam, who was still standing by the table.

"Sit down, let's have breakfast."

It wasn't an apology. It wasn't a promise he wouldn't do it again. But it was as close as Sam was going to get, and he took his seat and lifted his fork. They ate in silence.

Dad was off to town after breakfast, and Bobby shooed the boys out of the kitchen with a grumbled "I'm not so old I can't wash some goddamned plates".

Sam and Dean went out to the porch and Sam tilted his face up to let the sun warm it. But he could feel Dean's eyes on him, and turned his head to look at him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I…" Dean dropped his eyes for a moment and raised them again. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. If I'd known my dad was gonna do this to you, I'd stepped in sooner."

Dean shook his head. "You did enough. More than any other sponsor did."

Sam didn't really want to think of what Dean had been through with his other sponsors. Well, his father had made a good point – he had a chance to treat Dean differently.

He showed Dean around the salvage yard. He had come to know it like the back of his hand, but it was refreshing to see it through Dean's eyes; the older boy was staring every which way, clearly fascinated.

"You like cars?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean let his fingers trail on a rusty husk of a car Sam could not, for the life of him, identify the model of. "We lived most of the time in an RV, and we maintained it ourselves, so I learned the ropes."

Sam was amazed Dad had never considered getting an RV. It would be a hell of a lot more comfortable than crashing at a different motel each time and owning only what the Impala's trunk could hold beside the weapons. He was about to ask Dean more about it, and then realized that the first-person plural must have been referring to him and his father.

The father he murdered.

Dean went on, still looking at the car and unaware of Sam's train of thoughts. "I like it, you know? To see how all the parts fit together, to be able to figure out what's wrong and to fix it. And even if it's a total loss, you can still find some way to rebuild it, to bring it back. To make it healthy again."

Sam suspected Dean was talking about more than cars, but he judged it was best not to go into it now. "Uh… I'm sure Bobby wouldn't mind a hand with some of these."

"Really?" Dean's expression was hovering between careful hope and resigned weariness. "That'd be awesome, but I don't think he'd want a- I don't think he'd want me to help him."

"I don't see why not. I'll ask him."

"No, it's fine," Dean dropped his eyes and dragged the toe of his boot in the dirt. "Don't bother him on my account. I should be with you, anyway, not fooling around cars."

"I can sit out here with you. Or I'd be asleep in the house behind the wards and salt-lines and everything. We aren't gonna be here much longer, so you might as well take advantage of it."

Dean looked at him, a sort of a sideway glance without fully raising his head. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"And your dad-"

"I'll handle my dad." There was no way Dad was going to have a say about this, not if Sam could help it.

Sam and Dean hung around the yard and the house until lunch, after which Sam headed upstairs to bed. He hated feeling like a little kid that needed a nap, but he couldn't help it. Dean came up with him and sat on his cot while Sam settled on his pillow.

"You don't have to sit with me," he said.

Dean lifted the book he was holding. "Mr. Singer gave me this, said I should catch up on some lore. I might as well do it here while you sleep."

"Okay," Bobby's house was well-warded, so it wasn't like Sam needed protection against something jumping him in his sleep, but he didn't feel like throwing Dean out. He pulled the comforter up and snuggled in it. "Want a little advice?"

"Sure."

"If Bobby tells you to call him 'Bobby' and not 'Mr. Singer', I'd do it."

It was a bit amusing to see Dean's cheeks blush somewhat. "I'll try to remember that."

Sam smiled, and was asleep within minutes.

He woke up about an hour later. Dean was sitting cross-legged on the cot, already halfway through the book. During the hours they spent together Sam did most of the talking, but he did manage to gather some observations about Dean. Being a book-lover wasn't one of them, but he was terrifyingly obedient; if Bobby told him to read a book, that was exactly what he did.

Dean looked up when he heard Sam shifting on his bed. "Sleep well?"

"I guess."

He could see worry crawl into Dean's eyes. "Did it bother you that I was here? Was I making noise?"

Sam sat up carefully. "It's not you. I'm tired all the time, and sleep doesn't help too much, no matter how long I'm out, or where, or with whom."

There was still worry in Dean's face, but Sam could tell that it wasn't about himself now. "And it's a normal thing after Mono? Like a side-effect or something?"

"The doctors said it could happen, especially with a case as bad as mine was."

"Is it permanent?"

"They can't tell. They only said to wait and see. So we wait. But it's been months, and my Dad doesn't say it, but I know he's worried, and he gets restless, and… I just feel useless to him now." Sam didn't even realize he was going to say it before he did, didn't even realize this was how he was feeling about himself. He stared at his hands when the meaning of his own words sank into him. Useless.

"You're not useless."

"I can't hunt, not anymore."

"Hunting isn't just charging in with guns blazing. It takes research to know what to load your guns with and if you should pack them in the first place, and not a silver knife or a wooden stake. And research you can do, maybe even better now when you're not distracted by training and preparing for the hunt."

It made sense, Sam knew it did, but it didn't make him feel better. "I can't even take care of myself, can't be trusted to be left alone. It's like I'm… I'm a burden."

Dean stayed silent for a while and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Well, you're not your dad's burden anymore, are you? And not Bobby's. You're mine, and I don't mind it."

Sam looked up. Dean had the same strange softness Sam saw in his eyes last night. "But you're

(A slave)

not here of your own free will."

Dean shrugged. "It's not like I've ever been anywhere of my own free will. It doesn't mean I can't like being where I end up, right?"

Sam studied him carefully, trying to see if the older boy was sweet-talking him to calm him down, ensure Sam he was contented and wasn't going to cause any trouble. But Dean just stared back, his face open and earnest, and Sam wanted it to be true, wanted Dean not to mind him being his burden, wanted Dean to like being with him.

God, he was pathetic. It didn't matter that the look in Dean's eyes said otherwise.

Mostly didn't matter, anyway.

Dad still wasn't back when they went downstairs, and they watched some TV with Bobby, and then went into the kitchen to help him make dinner. Sam sat at the table, peeling and cutting the vegetables while watching the way Bobby and Dean were getting along.

Which was amazingly well. Before Dad had brought Dean in, Bobby made it seem like he would love for the collared one to be chained and gagged in the basement at all times. It was surprising and more than a little heartwarming for Sam to see how Bobby was now treating Dean with the same easy way he had always treated Sam. And, on second thought, it shouldn't have been surprising at all. Bobby had no kids, but he had a very strong fatherly instinct; Dean was a murderer, but he was also a young boy, alone and scared. Bobby's big, soft heart never stood a chance.

That didn't mean Bobby didn't lash out at Dean. After all, he did have a reputation to maintain. But Dean clearly saw beyond it, because even though he was displaying the same submissive behavior as with Dad, he was visibly more relaxed around the older hunter.

Sam heard the rumble of the Impala as they were setting the table for dinner and glanced over at Dean. Even though the older boy was going about his chore of placing the glasses down, Sam could clearly see him tense up at the sound.

Dad was in a good mood, and dinner passed without incident. As the boys were clearing the table and Bobby was setting the coffee machine, Dad went out the door. He came back a moment later with a paper bag.

"Dean," he said.

"Sir," Dean turned to him, and Sam and Bobby also halted, waiting to see what was up.

"You can't be expected to protect my son with no weapons," Dad took something out of the bag and placed it on the table. "Here."

It was a .45 caliber Colt semi-automatic with ivory handles. Sam wasn't too keen on guns, but he could appreciate that this one was pretty nice. Dean must have thought so too, because he stared at it for a long moment, and then looked at Dad.

"It's for you. You can take it."

As carefully as he did with the pill, Dean reached for the gun. He picked it up and checked to see if it was loaded and that the safety was on while pointing it away from them, just as Dad had always instructed Sam to do. He raised it to eye level to look through the sights, then lowered it again and Sam noticed the corners of his mouth curl, just the tiniest bit. "Thank you, sir."

Dad nodded and poured a few magazines out of the bag. "We'll go out to the range tomorrow to see how you handle it. Sam could use some target practice, too."

Dean was still marveling at the gun when they went to bed. Sam watched him from his own bed as Dean took it apart and put it back together again, and then counted the bullets he loaded into the magazine.

"Can you shoot a sponsor?" Sam asked suddenly.

Dean's hands halted for a second before resuming their movement. "No."

"What happens if you try?"

"My hand moves and I miss."

"Do you know it because you've tried, or because they told you that's what happens?"

Dean slid the loaded magazine into the gun, checked the safety and tucked it under his pillow. "After they put the collar on, they had me go against a guy with a bracelet. Empty handed, guns, knives, crow bar, bow, axe. Anything you can think of, even a goddamned shuriken. Two hours of it, and the guy walked away without so much as a scratch." He looked at Sam. "So no, I can't shoot a sponsor. I can't hurt a sponsor any other way, either."

"But you can let them get hurt? Like, if they're about to get hit by a bus and you just don't do anything about it?"

"There was this one sponsor I really hated," Dean said. His gaze drifted a bit away from Sam. "We were hunting one night in Arkansas, alone in the mountains. The wendigo we were after was a sneaky sonovabitch and it jumped us out of nowhere. I had a flare gun, but my sponsor lost his. He fired at the thing with a shotgun, but it just got it angrier, and it started pushing him back toward the edge of a cliff. I thought I'd just let the wendigo push him over the edge, it was a forty-foot drop and he never would've survived. Nobody would've known. Nobody could've even blamed me for it if they'd known."

"But you didn't let it," Sam said quietly.

Dean shook his head.

"Why?"

"Because then I'd be stranded in the middle of the woods with the bracelet at the bottom of a forty-foot gorge," he looked back up at Sam. "The death of the sponsor doesn't annul the binding, and a collared one can't take the bracelet off their body even if you knew the incantation. If I let a sponsor get hit by a bus I'd just get my ass hauled to the morgue along with them."

"And if you needed to push a sponsor away from the coming bus?"

"The collar can tell the difference. It'd let me do it."

Sam was silent for a while and then he asked, "Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"When the collar stops you from harming a sponsor."

Dean averted his eyes, and Sam thought about how the older boy was jerked back by that invisible leash.

"It does, doesn't it?"

"It's not so bad."

Which was a flat-out lie. "You don't have to try and make me feel better about my dad forcing you to attack me for the sake of demonstration."

His voice was trembling a bit, and Dean looked back at him. "He needed to show you and Bobby," he said softly. "You needed to know you're safe. Now you do, and it's over."

"But how much does it hurt?" The tremble in Sam's voice was stronger now.

Dean studied him for a minute longer before he spoke. "It's like having a choke chain tightening all of a sudden around your throat. It's stronger the second time, stronger than that the third time."

They had me go against a guy with a bracelet. Two hours of it.

Sam's face must have given away his feelings because Dean leaned forward a little. "It's okay, Sam, you don't have to worry about it. There's no physical damage, and pain I can handle. And it's not like your dad is the kind of person who'd do that for entertainment, right?"

Sam wanted to ask if there were sponsors who did it for entertainment, but he was already too exhausted. Dean got up and tucked the comforter around him, the same way Dad did yesterday. "Do you need meds or anything?"

"No, it's fine," he could only whisper now. Dean went back to the cot and settled down. He still didn't lie on his back, but Sam had insisted on him taking painkillers every few hours, so he shouldn't have been really uncomfortable.

The nightmare came faster and stronger; the fire burned brighter and his parents' screams were head-splitting. The yellow eyes were hovering closer, the wicked whisperings drilling into his ears.

But when the warm presence came, it was stronger, too. Sam was wrapped tightly inside its glow, snuggling into solid protectiveness.

"Everything's okay, Sam. You're safe, the dream won't hurt you. Nothing will hurt you. Just sleep now."

Chapter Text

Bobby had a firing range in the field behind his house – in fact, there was little that Bobby didn't have when it came to anything a hunter would need. The range was really just a stretch of dirt with big bales of hay on which targets could be placed, and a variety of pieces of wood – parts of door frames and walls, tables and leftover barrels – that could be arranged to be used as obstacles or covers.

Dad and Dean carried the duffle with the guns and ammunition, and also a few large plastic bags full of empty cans. Sam had picked up one of the bags and started to haul it along, but Dean took it out of his hand and, despite Sam's protests, toted all the bags to the firing range on his own.

Dad laid the weapons and bullets on a narrow table that served as a counter while Sam and Dean lined up a dozen cans on a long saw-horse in front of a bale of hay. Dad waited for them to come back behind the counter and put on safety goggles and earplugs. He then loaded a magazine into the Colt and handed it to Dean.

"You need some free shots to get your bearings?"

"If it's okay, sir."

"Five."

"Yes, sir."

Dean raised the gun while racking the slide, leveled the barrel at the backstop and fired five quick rounds. Bits of hay went flying into the still air. Dean lowered the gun, unloaded it and ejected the remaining bullet out of the chamber.

Dad took the gun, loaded seven bullets into the magazine and an extra one into the chamber, put another loaded magazine on the counter and handed the gun back to Dean. "Alright. The first four cans with both hands, next four with your right hand, last four with your left. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fire at will."

Dean assessed the targets for a moment, and before Sam even realized it, the first four cans were blasted off the saw-horse. Dean let his left hand fall away from the gun and knocked off the next quartet, and then the last cans with hardly seconds to switch both his hands and the magazine.

Sam gaped at the older boy while Dean stood with the gun still trained on the backstop.

"Put another dozen cans there." Sam couldn't comprehend how Dad managed to sound so calm and unimpressed. He and Dean went to line more cans on the saw-horse.

"This was amazing," Sam said. Dean just shrugged, but the corners of his mouth turned some; it wasn't a smile, but Sam thought he was pleased with the compliment.

When they returned to the counter, Dad was loading the Colt again. "Same drill, now hit every other can first."

"Yes, sir," Dean blasted the cans off the saw-horse with the same speed and accuracy.

Dad made him go a few more rounds with varying drills, moving in and out of cover, shooting while in motion and even blindfolded, after he had a minute to memorize the targets. Dean hit almost every one, seemingly effortlessly, and although his expression remained neutral, Sam could see how he glanced at Dad to see his reaction. After the drill in which he missed a shot – the only one he had missed during the entire session – that neutral expression faltered, just a little, but enough for Sam to suspect Dean feared being punished for the failure. Sam wondered if the sponsors had taught him this was what he should expect, or whoever had trained him before he was collared.

Dad didn't mind that one missed shot, not with everything else done so perfectly. "This gun works for you?"

"Yes, sir," Dean's tone made it obvious that "works" was an understatement. Dad nodded.

"You'll keep it, then. Sam, you're up."

Sam wasn't eager to step up to the counter, not after what he had just witnessed Dean do. But he couldn't disobey, so he walked over to Dad's side and looked at the gun he was holding. It was the .9 caliber Taurus that Dad had brought him a little while before he got sick.

"You didn't have a lot of time to practice with it, did you?"

"No, sir."

"Do you think you can do it now?"

"I'll try," he wasn't really sure how long he would be able to wield the heavy gun, but Dad was smiling at him, and he didn't want that smile to vanish.

Dean had hung a cardboard target on the bale of hay and trotted back as Dad loaded the magazine and handed it over for Sam to load into the gun. Dean and he stood a little back as Sam aimed and took a shot.

The recoil was worse than he remembered, or maybe it was because he was weaker now. There weren't any holes marring the smooth surface of the target. He fired again and hit the edge of the cardboard. He clenched his jaws and made his arms hold steady as he attempted another shot and missed again.

"Okay."

Sam put the gun down upon hearing his father's voice and almost reluctantly looked up at him. Dad was still smiling and reached a hand to stroke Sam's head. "It's been a long while since you practiced, and I know you're not well. It's okay. We'll take it slow. I'm going back to the house, I want you to practice some more if you can handle it. Can you?"

"Yes, sir," he wasn't a complete failure. He wasn't.

"Dean'll help you. When you get too tired you can stop and come back in. Alright?"

Sam nodded and Dad patted his cheek and left them there.

Dean watched him quietly as Sam picked up the gun. "I don't really suck that bad," Sam said. He didn't need to justify himself, but he couldn't help it, not after Dean's almost flawless display.

"I didn't think you do," Dean replied evenly. "You have the basics down, holding the gun right, squeezing the trigger correctly. But you can't be expected to ace it after months of illness. Here."

He moved to stand behind Sam and reached his hands on either side of Sam's body to support his arms as he lifted the gun again. With most of the weight off, Sam found it easier to steady the Taurus. The next shot went into the target – not the bull's eye, but not too far, either.

"There you go," Dean's voice was warm, proud. Sam fired, and the bullet hit even closer. He took a few more shots, all inside the target. Sam felt a smile breaking on his face. "That's awesome, Sam."

Sam put the gun back on the counter. "Not as good as you."

Dean shrugged as he checked the gun and ejected the magazine. "I've had more practice, that's all."

"That's not all. It's talent, too."

Dean finished loading the magazine and slapped it into the gun. "Maybe, but mostly practice. And it's not like you don't have any talent. Wanna go again?"

Sam wouldn't have thought he would be able to do target practice for as long as he did, but having Dean there supporting his arms and voicing encouragements and praises over his shoulder injected a new kind of strength into his weakened muscles. He was surprised to see nearly an hour had passed.

"I think that's enough," Dean said after Sam had finished firing at some empty cans. He had knocked most of them off the saw-horse.

"I'm fine, I can keep going."

"No. You're tired. Your hands are shaking. It's no use practicing like this, you're just wasting ammo," Dean eased the gun out of Sam's hand, and Sam realized he was indeed tired, and grabbed the edge of the counter as he started swaying on his feet.

"Easy there," Dean's strong hands took hold of him, and he walked Sam over to a barrel. "Sit down until I get the place cleaned up, okay? Want some water?"

"I should help you," but he was tired, more than tired. Exhausted, even.

Dean smiled at him, the first real smile Sam had seen on the older boy since he came to Bobby's house. It was adorable and made his face younger and brighter and carefree. "I got this. You just get some rest, Sam. You've done well, really well."

Sam sat on the barrel while Dean meticulously picked up the wasted cartridges and the cans and packed their guns and ammunition back into the duffle. Then he took the cardboard target down from the backstop and brought it over to Sam.

"You can show this to your dad," he said as he shouldered the duffle. "You're okay to walk back to the house?"

Sam was still feeling weak, but he wouldn't let Dean see it; there was no doubt in his mind the older boy would carry him if he thought Sam couldn't walk on his own, which would be just ridiculous.

Dad and Bobby were in the study with stacks of books and papers between them, and looked up as the boys walked in. Sam saw Dad's expression change, and knew he noticed Sam was beat, but before he had a chance to speak, Sam held out the cardboard target. "I got the hang of the Taurus, Dad. See?"

"Yeah, I see, Sammy," Dad was smiling as he examined the bullet holes in the target. "Good job, kiddo. I knew you could do it. Singer, take a look at that."

The older hunter came around the table and peeked at the cardboard. "Well, well. That's what, fifteen yards? Not bad, Sam."

"Thanks to Dean."

Both men turned to look at Dean, who was still standing at the edge of the room with the duffle and bags he carried in. He dropped his eyes, obviously uncomfortable with the attention, but Sam was determined to give props where they were due. "I couldn't have done it without his help."

He watched Dad's face intently, but Dad just looked at Dean for another minute and said, "You know where to put the weapons and the bags?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go."

"Yes, sir," Dean turned to leave, when Dad's voice came.

"Good job there."

Dean glanced at him, briefly, before dropping his eyes again. "Thank you, sir."

He looked a little less uncomfortable, and Sam was relieved. Dad smiled at him again, turned back to the desk and resumed leafing through his papers. But Bobby stood watching the door for a minute longer, and then looked at Dad, his expression indecipherable.

Chapter Text

The Winchesters stayed at Bobby's for another two weeks.

Sam could tell Dad was getting ready to leave; he was driving out often for supplies, ammunition, new fake documentations and credit cards and other things, like a new coat for Sam. After he brought that in, Sam had insisted Dad should get some new clothes for Dean as well.

"It would look suspicious if you walk around with him dressed like you just picked him up from some homeless shelter. You think people wouldn't notice?"

Dad had grimaced, but had looked Dean up and down thoroughly. When he went to town again, he came back with a bundle of shirts, jeans, socks and boxers, and also a canvas jacket that wasn't new, but was in a good shape, and much better than the old, thin coat Dean had.

Sam happily went over the little heap of Dean's new clothes while Dean stared at the treasure, somewhat overwhelmed. Dad watched for a moment, and then suddenly reached into his pocket.

"Almost forgot. That's for you," he handed a few cards over to Dean, who took them and peered at them. "I had them made to match mine, I'll tell you which one to use when we need to."

"Yes, sir."

Dad nodded and left the room. Dean was flipping through the cards when Sam came to look over his arm. They were driver's licenses from different states with Dean's picture on them, each with a different name, but all of them stating his age as being twenty-one. Dean didn't really look older than eighteen, but Sam figured he could pass as being slightly older, surely at the gloomy bars where Dad intended the ID's to be used.

And he noticed something else, too. "These are the same last names as on my dad's ID's."

"Yeah. Easier to say I'm his son than to start making up some story about why I'm with you guys," Dean was still browsing the licenses. "And it wouldn't look right to leave you, as a minor, under the care of some stranger. An adult brother, on the other hand, nobody's gonna think twice about that."

"That would be nice, having a brother," Sam didn't even realize he was saying it out loud until he saw Dean raise his head to look at him. He could feel his cheeks heating but went on. "I mean, I know it's make-believe, just a bunch of fake ID's. But it's nice."

Dean put the cards down. "You're an only child?" All of a sudden, he looked startled. "I'm sorry, that was out of line. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's not out of line," Sam made his voice as soothing as he could. "Yeah, I'm an only child. I could have had a brother, though. My mom, she had a miscarriage. It was a boy." He tried to smile. "He would've been about your age now if he'd lived." He took a breath, the smile vanishing. "She didn't get pregnant again for a few years, and then they had me. She died when I was six months old."

Dean's face grew soft, compassionate. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks," Sam looked down at his hands. "Something supernatural killed her, and that was why my dad became a hunter. I don't remember her. My dad showed me photos and told me about her, but it's not… it's not the same, you know?"

"I know," Dean said gently, and Sam raised his eyes.

"You have a mom?"

Dean shook his head. "I was maybe two or so when she passed. I don't remember her either."

"And you have brothers or sisters?"

The pain that washed over Dean's face was sudden and almost violent. He looked away, and Sam could see him close his eyes briefly. "I had a little brother," he said, quietly. "He died."

Sam found his throat clogged. He barely managed to let out a faint "I'm sorry".

Dean nodded, still not looking at him. Sam had the feeling the older boy was struggling not to break down, and said, "You don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry I asked, I didn't mean to upset you."

Dean shook his head again and returned his gaze to Sam. "Not your fault, there's no way you could've known. It's just… it still hurts, and I don’t…"

"It's okay," Sam almost reached out to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder but didn't. "I'm sorry, Dean, it's okay. We won't talk about it anymore."

Dean nodded and wiped the heel of one hand over his cheek. Then he took a breath and got up. "Bobby has this car he wanted me to take a look at. Would that be okay?"

"Sure, I'll go with you."

Sitting on the front porch with a book in his lap, Sam watched Bobby and Dean bent under a gaping hood of a half-wrecked car. Bits of their conversation drifted to him; not that he could make out much of it anyway, he didn't take interest in cars despite his dad's best efforts. But their tone was light and comfortable, and there was one time when Bobby actually burst out laughing and clapped Dean on the shoulder, and Dean grinned at him, his green eyes sparkling. Sam liked seeing that. He wished Dean was like that around Dad as well.

Sam startled when he noticed Dad was behind him, leaning silently against the door frame. He smiled at Sam.

"I saw the driver's licenses you made for Dean," Sam said. "With the same last names as yours. It's kind of… like having a brother. Maybe the brother I could have had, the one you and Mom lost."

Dad said nothing. The light smile he wore faded.

Sam hesitated a little before saying, "Dean had a brother."

"He told you?" Sam didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't for Dad to be surprised.

"Yeah. He said he died."

Dad nodded, slowly.

"You knew about it?"

Dad nodded again.

"What else do you know?"

Dad went over to Sam and patted his head. "It doesn't matter, Sammy. Did you sort out the stuff in your room?"

"Yes, sir. Are we going to be moving soon?"

"Yeah," Dad watched Bobby and Dean for a minute, and then advanced to the edge of the porch and called out, "Any chance of getting some dinner around here before midnight, Singer?"

Bobby and Dean raised their heads, and Sam could see how Dean's expression changed; Sam wondered if Dean thought Dad was going to blame him for the lack of dinner. Being collared apparently got you blamed for a lot.

They watched some TV after dinner and then Sam and Dean turned in. Sam checked Dean's bruises every night; they were all gone now, and Dean assured him he wasn't in any pain. Sam didn't know if he should believe him, but Dean obviously didn't want him to worry, so he let it go.

They were lying in the dark when Dean's voice reached Sam. "Adam."

"What?" Sam turned in his bed to look at the vague shape of the other boy on his cot.

"My little brother. His name was Adam. He was four and a half years old when he died."

Chapter Text

The goodbye was hard. It seemed like Dad and Sam had been living with Bobby forever, and being on the road now felt out of place for Sam, like it belonged in another life.

Bobby walked out to the yard with Sam while Dad and Dean were loading the car.

"Did you take the sandwiches I packed for you?" He asked.

"Yeah. Thanks for that," Sam looked up at him and tried to smile. "I'll really miss your food, Bobby. And I'll miss you."

Bobby huffed. "Well, I ain't goin' nowhere. So you better call me, and you better make that knucklehead daddy of yours swing by whenever you're around."

"I will," Sam moved to wrap his arms around the burly man, and Bobby almost crushed him in a bear hug.

"I mean it, Sammy," Bobby said softly. "You call me, you hear? Don't you forget your old uncle."

"Never," Sam closed his eyes when he felt the sudden onset of tears. Bobby held him for a moment longer, then let go. Sam stepped back.

Dad held his hand out to Bobby. "Thank you for everything, Singer. I might not have said it enough, but I appreciate it."

Bobby shook his hand. "You be careful with- you be careful. Don't hesitate to call, you know I'll be there for you both. And take care of Sammy, or I'll hunt your ass down."

Dad nodded, gave Bobby's hand another shake, and then went over to the driver's side door.

Sam watched as Bobby approached Dean. "You be good, now, boy," he said, and although his voice was gruff, there was surprising tenderness in it.

"Yes, sir."

"Watch out for our Sammy."

"Yes, sir."

Bobby looked at him, and Sam could see that same tenderness in his weather-beaten features. Bobby reached a hand and squeezed Dean's shoulder. "You'll be fine, boy. You'll be just fine."

Sam thought he saw Dean blinking harder than before. "Thank you, sir."

Bobby let go of Dean's shoulder to smack the back of his head, but he did it so gently, it was almost a pat. "That's Bobby, ya idijt."

After Sam and Dean both settled in the back seat – Dad thought it would be more comfortable for Sam in the back if he got tired and wanted to sleep, and also better to have Dean near him so he could tend to whatever Sam needed – Dad gunned the engine and they sailed out of Singer's Salvage Yard. Bobby trailed a few steps behind the car, and the boys turned to look at him through the back window until they couldn't see him anymore.

They rode mostly in silence for the first few hours. It was weird for Sam at first to have someone sitting with him, but Dean's presence by his side quickly became comforting. They were heading west along Interstate 90, and the Impala rumbled proud and free as she tore down the highway.

It was almost one o'clock when Dad took the Rapid City exit. "We'll stop for lunch," he said. "You boys hungry?"

"Yeah," Sam said and heard a quiet "yes, sir," from Dean. Dad nodded, and soon they were driving through the outskirts of town, looking for a diner. They found one that was to Dad's liking – not too big and not too crowded – and parked outside.

"I know what I'm having," Sam said as they walked the short distance to the front doors. "Chicken nuggets and a side salad. And maybe a chocolate shake. What do you want?"

"Whatever you order for me," Dean said, and Sam looked up at him.

"What do you mean? You don't have a favorite food?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean said as a small bell chimed over the door and Dad scanned the half-empty dining space. "The sponsors decide what I can have."

"That's ridiculous," Sam slid into the booth Dad had picked, and Dean sat down by his side, putting Sam between him and the wall. "What if they say you can't have anything?" Dean shrugged, and Sam thought that, based on how he suspected Dean had been treated, it wasn't so far-fetched. "Did they? Say you can't have anything to eat?"

Dean shifted a bit uncomfortably. "It happened a few times. When I was being punished." He glanced up at Dad for a second before dropping his eyes, and Sam wanted to kick himself upon the realization that Dean feared he had just given Dad an idea for a punishment.

He wouldn't let Dad starve Dean. Ever.

A brunette waitress in her early twenties came to their table with menus and a pitcher of water. "Hello, gentleman. How are you today?"

"Good, thank you," Dad was already starting to go over the menu the waitress handed him. Sam watched as Dean smiled up at the girl, a bright, adorable smile. Her cheeks blushed almost immediately.

"I… can I get you some drinks?" She was visibly trying to get her professional face back on. It only made Dean grin wider.

"I'll have a Miller Lite. Pepsi for the boys," Dad said. "Or do you want anything else?" They shook their heads, and the waitress left.

Sam picked up the menu. "Good, they have chicken nuggets. Dean, what do you want?" The older boy didn't even touch the menu, and Sam frowned. "You like hamburgers, don't you? You can have one."

Dean looked at Dad, who was still looking through the menu. Sam sat his own menu down. "Dad," he waited for his father to look at him. "Tell Dean he's allowed to have a hamburger. He's waiting for goddamned permission."

Dad's eyebrows drew together at Sam's tone, but he glanced at Dean. "You can have whatever you want."

"And that goes for any other meal as well," Sam said pointedly. "Right, Dad?"

Dad looked at him again, eyebrows still drawn, but his voice was neutral. "Right."

The waitress came back with their drinks and pulled a notepad out of her pocket. "Ready to order?" She was trying to avoid Dean's eyes, but couldn't quite manage it, and the blush returned.

"I'll have a steak and eggs," Dad said. "Mashed potatoes on the side."

"Chicken nuggets and a side salad," Sam said. The waitress wrote it down, and Sam had the impression she was gathering her courage before turning to Dean.

"What can I get you?"

He smiled warmly at her. "I'd like to have your phone number, but there's no way a beautiful lady like yourself could be single. So how about a hamburger for now?" The waitress looked about ready to swoon, and her hand was trembling slightly as she jotted frantically in her notepad.

"Wow," Sam said as the waitress left. "What was that?"

Dean shrugged and took a sip from his soda. "I can get free stuff sometimes. Or info." He looked at Dad hesitantly. "Only if you want me to, sir."

Dad was eyeing him with a weird expression; it was a mix of bewilderment, thoughtfulness and curiosity. "Could be useful."

"You think she'll get us something for free?" Sam found he was actually entertained.

Dean shrugged again. "Maybe." The corners of his mouth were curling slightly.

The waitress returned with their food, and as she placed the plate in front of Dean she smiled, a little nervously. "There's some extra bacon there, no charge." She then put down a plastic basket filled with steaming onion rings. "And this is on the house."

Dean caressed her hand briefly as she settled the basket on the table. "Thank you so much, beautiful lady."

The girl blushed deeply and practically ran away from their table. Sam had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, and even Dad looked amused.

The food was good, and they finished it in no time. Sam passed on ordering a chocolate shake; he couldn't eat another bite.

Dad settled the bill, and as they were about to leave he said, "Hmmm."

The boys turned to him, and he held out the bill to Dean. Sam crowded to him to look at it; there was a phone number scribbled at the bottom.

"You might not want to litter our trail with too many broken-hearted young women," Dad said.

Dean looked alarmed, but seemed to calm down as he caught the amused glint in Dad's eye. "Yes, sir."

He dropped the waitress a wink as they headed out.

Sam tried not to fall asleep when they started driving again, but the hefty meal and the way the car rocked gently made him doze off. When he opened his eyes again and took in his surrounding, he found he was lying with his head on Dean's lap and the older boy's hand resting easy on his shoulder.

Sam pushed up, a bit embarrassed, and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What for?" There was a little smile hovering over Dean's lips. "Seems like you had a good rest."

"Yeah," Sam reached up and tried to feel what his hair was doing; it had a tendency to get all tousled in his sleep.

"Here," Dean brushed Sam's hair lightly with his fingers. "All presentable again."

"Thanks," Sam glanced out the window. "Where are we?"

"Just passed Spearfish a little while ago," Dad said from the driver's seat.

"Are we still following I-90?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. At least as far as Billings today," Dad pressed down on the gas, as if reminded of the distance still ahead. "We'll spend the night there."

They checked into a motel when they reached Billings – not too big and not too crowded, same as the diner – and Dad and Dean carried most of their stuff in, letting Sam handle only his backpack by himself.

The months he had spent in the hospital and with Bobby made Sam forget – or repress – all those little things about motel rooms; the way the room looked almost sterile when you walked in, all clean and everything in order. And then, the longer you stayed, you started noticing those tiny telltale signs – the small tears to the carpet, the scratches on the furniture, the spots on the wallpaper, the rust on the faucets. The air freshener housekeeping sprayed would dissipate, letting the scent of old dust rise again.

"What's this?" Sam looked at the rolled-up sleeping bag Dean had put on the floor. He turned to Dad. "You're not letting Dean sleep on the couch?"

"I am," Dad tossed the Impala's keys to Dean. "You can put that thing back in the car. And get another can of salt from the trunk."

"Yes, sir," Dean picked the sleeping bag back up and went out the door. Dad turned back to Sam and gave a tiny sigh.

"I can see you like Dean, and that's fine. I wouldn't want you to spend so much time with a person you're afraid of, or don't trust, or can't stand to be with. And it's fine that you care about how he's treated, because there's no cause not to treat him fairly as long as he behaves. But don't forget what he is, Sam. Don't forget what he did. Don't forget he's wearing that collar for a reason. He's not a pet to be coddled, he's-"

"A slave," Sam wasn't aware he was speaking before he heard his own voice. Dad shook his head, discontent clear in his face.

"Enough with the slavery crap already. He's not an innocent African villager, abducted to be sold across the sea. He's a murderer on parole, Sam, and as far as any other hunter is concerned, whatever he's getting is too good for him."

"So you want me to not care if he sleeps on the floor?" Sam didn't want to turn this into a fight, not on their first night on the road, not when Dean was about to be back any second, but he couldn't help himself.

"Jesus Christ, he has a sleeping bag, it's not like he'd actually be sleeping on naked tiles. But yes, if the situation calls for it, he'll be the one on the goddamned floor. Every time. You understand me?"

Sam understood. Maybe too well. And he wanted to keep going, to prove Dad wrong, but it wasn't the time nor the place, and he already saw Dean's silhouette through the curtains as the older boy was walking back to the door. So he only said, "Yes, sir" and turned to get a change of clothes from his bag.

Dad was wrong. All the other hunters were wrong. Being treated like a normal human being wasn't too good for Dean.

He would find the time and the place.

Chapter Text

They continued west on I-90 the next day, after a breakfast of sandwiches from Bobby's supply – what was left after dinner last night. At Butte, Dad got off I-90 and onto I-15, and they were now headed south.

Sam was again sitting in the back seat with Dean. He was feeling quite good today, even though he had feared he would be too tired. His nightmares had been reduced to almost nothing over the past two weeks at Bobby's; the glowing presence that protected him was getting stronger and more confident, and the yellow-eyed thing was pushed farther away.

But last night, in the motel room, it was back, its evil like a suffocating cloud. Sam tried to scream and couldn't; he couldn't breathe through the thick smoke of his childhood home burning down. The yellow eyes were hovering closer than they had for days, and Sam was alone, drowning in a swamp of smog and blood.

And all of a sudden, he wasn't alone. It was like giant wings spread around him, driving the smoke and the malice away and then wrapping him in a protective circle, cradling him like a baby. Although this time there was no talking, Sam knew that it was the same presence that came into his nightmares before, and that he was safe. Only then did he drift into dreamless sleep.

He saw Dean looking at him and said, "What?"

"Did you sleep okay last night? You had another nightmare."

Sam didn't know why he felt embarrassed by it, but he did, a little. "Yeah, but it was over. How do you… was I making a racket?"

"No. You just tossed and turned a bit and looked like you couldn't breathe. And then you settled down."

"Did I wake you up?"

"No, of course not, I wasn't asleep yet," but Sam had the feeling Dean was lying; he didn't know why, maybe the older boy didn't want him to feel bad for disrupting his sleep.

They reached Malad City in time for dinner, and Dad checked them into a motel and went out to get takeout from the diner across the street.

"I need to leave you boys here," he said as he set the bags on the kitchenette table. "I don't know when I'll be back, so don't wait up."

"Okay," Sam said, and Dean issued a "yes, sir."

Dad took a few steps toward Dean and fixed him with a stare. Sam could see Dean was straining to stay put. "Anything happens to him," Dad's voice was low, growling. "Anything, and it's your ass. You understand me, boy?"

Dean's lips were trembling a bit, but he managed to whisper, "Yes, sir." Dad nodded and threw a last glance at Sam before walking out the door.

Dean locked the door behind him, leaving the security chain unhooked, and checked the salt-line. He knelt to right it a little bit, and then got back to his feet and looked at Sam.

"He didn't mean it," Sam said, although he didn't believe his own words.

"He did. And it's okay," Dean drew a little breath and smiled. "You want dinner?"

They ate their meatball subs and fries in front of the TV and kept on watching for a while longer, conversation streaming light and effortless between them. Sam couldn't even remember why he had thought it would be weird to have someone else other than his dad with him on the road; it was so easy to be around Dean, with the gentle way the older boy was looking out for him, making sure he was comfortable, had enough to eat, took his meds. He might have been doing it because of Dad's threat, but Sam hoped Dean did care about him, at least a little bit.

Although he had been doing well, the long drive still took its toll, and Sam was ready to turn in quite early. Dean tucked the blanket around him as he settled in bed.

Did he do it for Adam, too?

"Do you want a sleeping pill?" Dean asked. "In case you have more nightmares."

"No, I… I think I can handle it," Sam didn't want to talk about the protective presence that drove the evil away. Not yet.

"Okay. I'll be right here," Dean went over to the couch. He obviously had no intention of using the other bed. Sam had the idea he might not have used the couch, either, if not for Dad's explicit permission.

"You don't have to go to bed this early just because I am," Sam said.

"I need to be well-rested so I can do my job, don't I?" Dean smiled at him. "Goodnight, Sam."

When the nightmare came, it was worse. The flames rose so high, Sam couldn't even see beyond them. The shrieks of his dying parents were so loud, he wanted to clasp his hand over his ears, but he couldn't move a muscle. And there were whispers all around him, crawling into his soul, wrapping thin, wretched fingers around his heart. He tried to scream, tried to call for the golden presence, but the smoke was slithering down his throat and smothering his voice.

"Sam!" He woke up with a jerk and stared up at Dean. The older boy's face looked alarmed.

"Wha-" Sam croaked.

"You were having a nightmare, sounded like a bad one. Are you okay?" Sam absently felt Dean's hands on him; he was checking Sam's pulse with one hand and the temperature of his face with the other. Sam tried to breathe but could only manage a little gasp. He tried again and heard the lock on the door click open.

"What the fuck?"

Sam had only barely turned his head before Dad was already at his bed and snaking a hand to grab Dean's shirt. He yanked him away from Sam, turned him and landed a fist on his face, knocking him down to the floor.

"Dad! No!" Sam sat up so fast his head spun, but he ignored it and leaped to grab at Dad, who was looming over Dean. "He wasn't hurting me!"

For a moment Sam was sure Dad wasn't even hearing him; his face was dark with rage, his eyes flaring, his fists clenched. And then the anger receded just enough for him to tilt his head toward Sam.

"He wasn't hurting me," Sam repeated, still short of breath. "I had a nightmare, and he came to check on me. He was helping me, Dad, that's all. He wasn't hurting me."

Dad looked at him at length, and then back at Dean. The older boy stayed where he was on the floor at the foot of the bed, half-lying, his head down. Sam could hear him panting; he was undoubtedly waiting for the beating to continue, but he didn't so much as raise a hand to shield himself. Sam let go of Dad and slid off the bed and onto the floor.

He knelt by Dean and reached to gently lift the older boy's head up; in the dim light Dean's face was pale, and his eyes wide and terrified. There was a dark red mark on the left side of his jaw.

"It's okay," Sam murmured. "It's okay, Dean, he won't touch you. Come on." He pulled gingerly at Dean, making him shift onto his knees, and then helped him get up. Dean stood a bit unsteadily, shaking, his breath still hard and his eyes still down.

Dad took a step forward, and Sam felt Dean cringe with a soft, frightened whimper and moved to put himself between Dean and Dad. He knew Dad wasn't going to beat Dean anymore, that he had realized his mistake, but Dean needed him there right now.

"I… I thought… I was sure…" Dad seemed to be at lost for words, a state Sam had rarely seen him in. "I'll just… go get some ice. For your face." With this he turned and walked out the door, grabbing the ice bucket as he went.

Sam took hold of Dean's arm and led the other boy slowly to the couch, where he made him sit down. Then he went to turn the lights on and came back to have a closer look at Dean's face. Dad had swung at full force, and Dean was going to have a very big, very ugly bruise. Sam hoped a bruise is all it would be, and not broken teeth or a fractured jaw. He should make Dad take Dean to a walk-in clinic.

Dean's eyes were on him as Sam looked into them again. "He didn't mean it," Sam said. "He panicked, he wasn't thinking. And he's sorry, he didn't say it, but I can tell he is."

"I'd have done the same if I were in his place," Dean said quietly.

"He shouldn't have done it. He knows you can't hurt me."

"He wasn't thinking, you said it yourself."

"It's still wrong, he should have just stopped for a second before he stormed in-"

"Hey," Dean reached a hand to touch Sam's arm. "It's okay, Sam. Everything's okay. Don't worry about it. I'm fine. Everything's okay."

Sam suddenly felt like a little bell had gone off at the back of his brain, but he didn't have time to ponder it further, as Dad came back in with the ice. He poured some onto a towel, twisted it into a bundle and brought it over to the couch.

Dean took it with a mumbled "thank you, sir," and pressed it to the side of his face with a tiny wince. Dad stood looking at him for a moment longer, and then turned to Sam.

"Go back to bed, Sammy," he said.

Sam didn't want to go back to bed. He didn't want to let it all go as if nothing happened, as if his father hadn't just punched a defenseless, innocent boy without even apologizing for it. But he knew there was no point in getting in Dad's face about it; he'd be better off using Dad's guilt to make him take Dean to see a doctor.

As he lay in his bed and stared into the darkness, he tried to figure out what the little bell had been trying to tell him. It had something to do with Dean, with what Dean said. But he was exhausted and couldn't focus.

When he fell asleep again, there were no more nightmares.

Chapter Text

Sam had been right in assuming Dad would feel guilty enough to take Dean to a doctor. Dad didn't so much as frown when Sam had brought it up the next morning over breakfast.

"He can also get a check-up," Sam had said. "He might need his tetanus shot updated or whatever. You want him healthy so he can protect me and help you hunt, don't you?"

Dad had only peeked at Dean – the bruise was indeed big and ugly, more so against the paleness of his skin – and gave an almost invisible nod.

Sam tagged along when Dad and Dean went out to go to the nearest walk-in clinic Sam had found in the phone directory. Dean halted after they came out of the room, turned and punched the wall near the door with both fists. He looked down at his hands, punched the wall again, and then caught up with Sam and Dad as they reached the car.

"What're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Cover story."

The clinic wasn't too busy at mid-morning, and they were showed into the exam room in no time. A short, chubby doctor came in flipping through the forms Dad had filled out while they were waiting outside.

"Good morning, Mr. … Harris. Whatever happened to your face?"

"He got into a fight," Dad said.

"I see," the doctor took a seat on a stool and rolled himself to the examination table Dean was sitting on. "Looks like it was a bad one."

Dean smirked. "You should've seen the other guy." The doctor glanced down at Dean's hands; Sam understood now why Dean went through all the trouble to bruise his knuckles.

Dad did order a full check-up for Dean, and although Sam was glad, he had the uncomfortable feeling it was more like giving the Impala a service, and less like taking care of an actual human being.

The tests were all good, though, and Dean's face had suffered no damage from Dad's fist other than the bruise. They were waiting for the summary and the pain med prescription the doctor was about to write when he was called to attend to some entitled gentleman who squealed about having a heart attack right then and there, when Dad glanced at the receptionist.

"Chatty one, isn't she?" He muttered. The middle-aged woman with the chestnut curls had been constantly on the phone since the Winchesters first came in. "Did you catch what she's talking about?"

The question was directed at Dean, who tilted his head a little. "Essentially gossip, sir, from what I could hear whenever we passed her by. Some work-related issues, but mostly not."

Dad nodded. "The ghost in the house I checked out last night, I couldn't attribute it to any of the residents who lived there, at least not to those who are on records as tenants. I'm sure I'm missing something. One-forty-nine Messel Drive. It's boarded up now, on sale."

Dean glanced over at the receptionist, and back at Dad. "Want me to try, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"Yes, sir."

Dean sauntered over to the reception desk, leaned against it and flashed the clerk his adorable smile.

Sam and Dad couldn't hear the conversation from where they were seated, but the receptionist had turned toward Dean with her face open and bright, and Dean leaned closer, still grinning.

Dean wandered back a short while later and sat down between Sam and Dad. He pretended to leaf through a magazine as he talked in a low voice, "There was a guy subletting for a few months last year while the tenants, the Finnlers, were tight for money. Name's Edgar Mooney, forty-something. The townsfolk thought he was maybe working on a book or something, 'cause he was at the library a lot, and other than that he was home all the time. Rumor had it, him and Mrs. Finnler were getting it on while Mr. Finnler was out earning the dough. And then Mooney was gone, like, overnight, and was never seen again. The Finnlers moved away a few months later."

Dad listened while still watching the receptionist, who had gone back to her non-work-related phone calls. He gave a slow nod and then the chubby doctor was walking toward them and all three of them got to their feet.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Harris. You can have the summary and the prescription for the pain medication in a few minutes at the front desk. You might want to keep ice packs on that bruise for a while longer."

"Thank you, doctor," Dean said.

"You're welcome. And try to stay away from those fights, huh? Wouldn't want it to be a knife next time."

"Of course not," Dean smiled at the doctor and he smiled back.

If only the good doctor knew how many things much more dangerous than knives were out there in the dark

On the way back to the motel, Dad stopped at a large grocery store that had a pharmacy to get groceries for lunch and to fill Dean's prescription. Sam knew Dad wouldn't pass on such an opportunity to replenish their med stock, but he was surprised when Dad wordlessly handed the little package over to Dean.

They parked close to their room and Dad scanned the surroundings before opening the trunk and popping up the false bottom. He filled a duffle with guns and some cleaning supplies and gave it to Dean, while Sam carried the groceries.

"I'm going to check out the lead on this Mooney character," Dad said. "You two stay in the room. You can get ice if you need it, but that's it. And I want these guns cleaned."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied. Dad ruffled Sam's hair and gave him a little shove toward the room. He waited for them to lock the door behind them before driving away.

Sam rummaged through his bag and got his textbooks out. As he was hunting for a pen, Dean asked, "Do you need the kitchen table?"

"No, I'm fine with the bed," Sam replied. Dean spread a dropcloth over the table and lined up the brushes and cleaning rods before pulling out the first gun and starting to disassemble it.

"So, schoolwork?" Dean's hands were moving methodically, and he was glancing at Sam with a tiny grin.

"Yeah. I've been missing a lot of it, with moving around, and changing schools all the time, and all those months that I've been sick. I don't wanna get behind."

"You're doing home-schooling?"

"Not officially, like, I'm not registered anywhere. But I found a curriculum that I like and Dad got me the materials, and I'm doing it alone."

"That's really impressive," Dean held the barrel against the light, closed one eye to peer inside, and then lowered it again and ran a rod through it.

Sam hesitated, not sure how to ask Dean about his own educational career. "I guess you haven't been to school since… well, since…"

"Since I got that fine piece of jewelry," Dean gave the revolver in his hand one last wipe down, put it away, and brought a sawed-off out from the duffle. "No, obviously not. Hadn't gone much before, either. Dropped out during the eighth grade."

Sam eyed him curiously. True, Dean didn't strike him as being highly educated, which was reasonable if he had dropped out upon being collared at sixteen. But Sam would never have believed Dean didn't even make it through middle school. "But… but you're smart." Dean glanced up, somewhat amused, and Sam coughed. "I mean, you know so much, not just hunting things, but, like, regular stuff. And I think your Latin is better than Bobby's."

Dean chuckled and resumed his work. "I wasn't living in a cave, you know. School ain't the only place where you can learn things. Besides, I did a little home-schooling myself. I thought I might even try for a GED someday, but…" he shrugged. "Latin wasn't one of my courses, but my dad was very religious, and between hunting and Bible studies I kinda picked it up."

It was the first personal detail Dean had willingly shared about his father, and Sam found himself nearly holding his breath. He was sure that if he asked a direct question, Dean would answer; but Sam didn't want to push him. He also didn't want to lose this opportunity to find out more about Dean's former life.

"You did a lot of hunting?" Sam asked cautiously. He started rearranging his books to make the conversation seem more casual.

"Depends on the cases we had, you know how it is. I started going on hunts when I was ten or eleven. So I guess you can say I did a lot of hunting."

"Ten is really young," Sam said. "Dad hardly took me out with him before I got sick, and only for simple salt 'n burns."

"It wasn't like I was chasing werewolves in the woods at ten. I was just waiting in the car at first and helping with the cleanup and such."

"Me, too," it was so refreshing talking to another hunter's kid; Sam realized he had never actually done that before he had met Dean, considering all of his father's acquaintances were adults, and the kids he had always met at school were all civilians.

Dean looked up long enough to flash him a smile before returning his attention to the shotgun he was putting back together. "Anyway, we were living in a house for a time, and they had a lot of easy cases around the area, mainly ghosts, because there was a Civil War battlefield nearby, so the spirits would pop up every so often."

"You said you had an RV."

"Most of the time. But we lived in this one town for about two years or so when my dad remarried."

Sam was leafing through a book without seeing anything that was written on the pages. He didn't even know what book it was. He only cared about keeping Dean talking. "Remarried after your mom?"

"Yeah," Dean finished assembling the shotgun, raked the slide a few times and raised it to eye-level. He seemed satisfied as he put it away. "She was a real nice woman, treated me really well. I liked her."

"She, uh, did she…" Sam didn't know how to address the past tense in Dean's description.

"Pass away? Yes. She was always sort of weak, you know? Sickly. And the pregnancy and labor just wore her out completely. She never fully recovered, even almost a year later."

Pregnancy. Labor. "Adam's labor?"

Sam was scared Dean would stop talking, but the older boy just nodded. "That's why we stayed in that town. So she could have medical care. And it went okay, all things considered, the pregnancy and labor. But she could hardly make it out of bed for months. She just kinda… faded away. My dad had nannies for Adam while she was sick, and every place we moved after she died. But none of them seemed to really care about him, not like I did. Finally, I just didn't go back to school when we moved again, so I could take care of him."

"How old were you, when Adam was born?"

"Almost twelve. If he'd been born four months later than he was, I would've gotten him as a birthday present," Dean smiled at that, but Sam could see the line of pain deepening in his face.

Sam did some quick math in his head and felt the fingers gripping the book turn cold.

"Okay, I'm all done," Dean stretched his arms and looked at Sam. "You need some help with that?"

"What?"

"You've been staring at the same page for like five minutes. If it's Latin, I might be able to help you with it. Other subjects not so much, but I can try."

Sam's cheeks were heating and he turned the page. "No, it's fine. It's not. I mean, it's not Latin. But it's fine, I got it."

"Okay," but Dean was eyeing him carefully. "Then I'll get lunch started. Any special requests?"

"No, just… whatever you're making is good."

Sam could feel Dean's gaze lingering on him and turned another page in his book. A moment later the legs of Dean's chair screeched on the floor as he pushed it back to get up. Sam's head was reeling, his fingers gripping the book with a force that made the pages crumple a little.

Dean was born in January 1979, so four months before Dean's twelfth birthday meant that Adam was born in September 1990. He died when he was four and a half years old, which would have made Dean at the time-

Sixteen.

Chapter Text

Dad wasn't back until almost sundown. Sam was more relieved to see him than he had been in a long time; the hours had seemed to stretch endlessly with Sam pretending to bury himself in his work, too uncomfortable

not scared, he wasn't scared

to interact with Dean.

Dean, on his part, didn't bother Sam. He cleaned up after they had lunch – Sam took his on the bed with the lame excuse that he was right in the middle of a chapter he needed to concentrate on – went around the room tidying up, and then turned on the TV, muted it and watched it silently. Sam had peeked at him every now and again, and was sure Dean did the same while he wasn't looking, but neither of them talked while the clock on the wall ticked the minutes away.

Dean got to his feet when Dad came in and went to help him out of his coat, then got a beer for him from the fridge as Dad slumped down on the couch.

"Did you have any luck with the case?" Sam sat down by Dad's side. Not because it felt safer. It had nothing to do with that.

"More than I hoped for, actually," Dad took a swig from his beer. "I called Mooney's home town, where he'd lived before he moved here. He never got back there, nor had he popped up anywhere else on the grid. No credit card bills, no phone records, nothing. So I'm thinking that maybe the rumor had it right, that Mooney had an affair with his landlady and her husband offed him and it's his spirit that's haunting the house." He looked over at Dean. "I'm going there after dark to try and find whatever earthly remains are tying the ghost to the house. You're coming with me."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, but his eyes shifted to Sam. Dad looked at him as well.

"You're okay to stay here alone for a few hours, aren't you, Sammy?" He asked. "I checked around, I don't think there's anything in this town aside from that ghost."

"It's fine," Sam said, maybe too quickly. He tried not to look at Dean. "I can handle it."

Dad smiled and stroked his head. "I'll leave you with weapons and holy water," he said. "It shouldn't take us too long, okay?"

"Okay."

Dad nodded, drained the rest of his beer and stood up. "Let's get geared up."

Sam waited for the sound of the Impala's engine to die down before picking up his emergency cell phone and dialing Bobby's number.

"What aren't you telling me?" He said as soon as Bobby's gruff "hello?" sounded through the receiver.

"Well, good evening to you too, idijt."

"I mean it, Bobby. You're holding something back about Dean, you and Dad. I need to know," Sam could feel the hand holding the phone trembling and tightened his grasp.

"Sam, is everything okay? Are you okay?" Concern was overcoming the rasp in Bobby's voice and Sam breathed in and tried to relax a little.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Dad took Dean out to work a case, and I…" he drew another breath. "Did you know Dean had a little brother? Adam?"

There were a few seconds of silence, and then, "Yes."

"You know what happened to him?"

"Sam, what's this all ab-"

"Do you know?!"

Another pause. "He died."

"How did he die?" Sam was holding the phone so tight he was afraid he might crack it. He made himself loosen his grip somewhat.

"Sam-"

"I did the math, Bobby," he could feel himself breathing hard. "Adam died when Dean was sixteen, the same age he was when he'd been collared. Neither you nor Dad said anything about it. Why?"

"Look, Sam, your daddy is just looking out for you. He doesn't want you to get upset-"

"Why would I get upset? Why?!"

Bobby sighed. "First of all, I want you to remember your dad loves you. He'd never do anything to put you in danger. You hear me?"

"Yeah," he wanted to yell at Bobby to get to the point but resisted.

"And I also want you to know I've been researching the collar on my own, and it's one of the strongest binding spells I've seen, if not the strongest. It's practically unbreakable. So again, there's absolutely no danger to you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You've been with Dean for what, three weeks now? You like him, don't you?"

"What does this got to do with anything?"

"I want you to remember that, too," Bobby paused, and Sam could see him in his mind's eye rubbing a hand down his face. "Your dad didn't want you to have all the details. He didn't want you worried and scared and upset. And it doesn't really matter, does it, with the collar being as strong as it is, and with Dean being the way he is-"

"Bobby," Sam was holding the phone with both hands now, his voice close to a whisper. "What happened to Adam?"

Bobby remained silent for so long, Sam feared he might have lost the connection. And then the hunter's voice came, so soft it was as if it was caressing Sam's ear, "Dean killed him. He killed his baby brother."

Chapter Text

When Dad and Dean came back way past midnight, Sam was still awake. There was no way, no way, he could sleep after what Bobby had told him.

His flesh felt like it was crawling. He still couldn't settle the impression he had of Dean with what he now knew. There was no doubt in his mind that Dean grieved for his brother; but then again, the papers and the newscasts were full of murderers crying over the victims whose lives they had ended with their own hands.

"How did he kill his dad, Bobby?"

"Shot him in the heart."

He didn't know what Adam looked like, but a mental image of a little child, all rosy cheeks and innocent smiles, kept floating before his eyes. And when he closed them, the cheeks became pale and wax-like, and the smile twisted into a death scowl.

"And Adam, how did he kill him?"

"Jesus Christ, Sam-"

"How?!"

"Pushed him back against the table in their RV. Kid's head got bashed in on the edge of the table."

Sam didn't close his eyes anymore.

He was upset, yes, and scared, and revolted. And also betrayed – by Dad, by Bobby. And by Dean.

"Could it have been an accident? Could it have been… I don't know, were they maybe possessed?"

"Sam."

"Or changed into werewolves or vampires or something? Did he think they were monsters?"

"Sam, he confessed it. At his trial. It wasn't an accident."

He didn't want to think that all of Dean's caring attitude toward him was just an act, just a collared one's attempt to abide by his sponsor's wishes. He had spent so much time over the years wondering what it would have been like to have a big brother; Dean made it seem almost real. But it wasn't real. Dean wasn't the brother Sam wished for. He was a murderer, the lowest kind of murderer, one who committed patricide and fratricide. That Dean regretted it meant nothing now, nothing at all.

And Sam couldn't bring himself to close his eyes.

He did pretend, though, when he heard the lock turn. He snuggled into his comforter and watched carefully from between the folds as Dad and Dean came in. They were covered in dust and dirt – no doubt what was left after they had brushed off most of it – and he thought he saw what looked like traces of blood on Dean's temple.

"You can take a shower, then turn in," Dad said quietly.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Dean grabbed some clothes from his duffle and headed for the bathroom.

Dad came over to Sam's bed, and Sam closed his eyes, pretending to be fast asleep. He didn't want to talk to Dad right now. He didn't want Dean to hear him talking. He felt the mattress dip as Dad braced a hand on it so he could lean over Sam, then felt a light caress and an even lighter touch, that could have been a kiss.

He stayed motionless and silent, and the next thing he knew, it was morning.

Sam turned over and blinked in the light. Dean was at the kitchenette counter, and Sam could smell toast and eggs and coffee. He watched Dean's back for a minute, wondering how he was going to be able to face the other boy, when Dad stirred on the other bed and opened his eyes.

"G'morning," he grumbled at Sam, pushed himself up and stretched, then got out of bed and padded into the bathroom.

Dean had turned at the sounds and flashed a smile at Sam. "Good morning."

Sam felt as if he was freezing. He couldn't get himself to talk. He pretended to still be dazed with sleep, and just nodded. Dean's smile wavered. He nodded back and turned to the hotplate again.

With Dad back in the room, Sam felt capable of getting out of bed and getting dressed. They sat at the table and Dean served the food and poured Dad some coffee. Even after all those days with the Winchesters, he still didn't sit down with them until he saw Dad's approving nod.

"How'd the hunt go?" Sam asked as he dug in. The eggs were good, made just like Bobby made them. Dean must have noted how it was Sam liked his eggs and did the same.

"Turns out I was right about the ghost," Dad said. He topped his toast with a heap of eggs and took a large bite. "We searched the house. The body was buried right there in the basement. Poor bastard."

Sam knew he needed to comment on Dean's injury; with all the care he had been showing for the older boy, it would seem odd if he didn't. But he still couldn't bring himself to look into Dean's face. He hoped the brief glance he gave him was satisfactory.

"How was Dean hurt?"

"The ghost threw him against a support post," Sam saw from the corner of his eye Dad was looking at him curiously but ignored it. He made himself glance up at Dean again.

"I should… I should probably look at that."

"It's fine, it's just a scratch," Dean said. He scooped up the last of the eggs and got up to wash his plate.

They packed and checked out. As Dean was loading the trunk, Sam came over to Dad.

"Can I sit up front today? I'm feeling good, I don't think I'll snooze on the drive," he tried to make his voice as light as possible, but Dad still gave him another curious look.

"Sure," he said. Dean came around from the back of the car and Dad turned to him. "Sam's taking shotgun."

"Yes, sir."

Sam compelled himself to look up at the older boy. The sunlight made Dean's collar shine bright silver. It seemed to Sam less like a necklace now, and more like the chain it really was.

"You don't mind, do you?" Sam gave him a smile and could feel the muscles in his cheeks protest at the forced contortion. Dean studied him for a minute, and something passed over his face, so briefly Sam wasn't even sure he saw it before Dean dropped his eyes.

"No, sir," he said quietly. Despite everything, Sam's chest clenched a little. But he didn't correct Dean's honorific as all three of them climbed into the car and started driving.

The silence lingered throughout the day, with the music from the Impala's loudspeakers the only sound inside the car. Sam didn't even ask Dad to turn it down. It was better than trying to force a conversation.

He peeked at Dean every once in a while, through the side view mirror or when, while shifting to get water or a snack, he could safely throw a glance at the back seat. The other boy was hardly moving, just staring out the window. He didn't talk, didn't try to address Sam in any way.

Sam was fine with that. His head still felt like it was spinning and his stomach still felt tight. But why? Dean was the same, no different than he had been yesterday morning. He had still been a murderer yesterday morning, and Sam wasn't uncomfortable with him in the least.

But yesterday morning Sam hadn't known Dean had killed a little child.

You knew he killed his father. Didn't you care? What kind of a hypocrite are you?

It wasn't true, he did care. But it wasn't the same. Not the same at all.

Dean is the same

He wasn't. He was a child-killer. A four-and-a-half-year-old child. His own brother, for Christ's sake.

But Dean had been a child-killer when he had tucked Sam's blankets around him and made him lunch and walked with him around the salvage yard and listened patiently to his never-ending chatter and supported his arms for him at the shooting range and made sure he had all his meds ready at the appropriate times.

And the pain in his face when he first mentioned his little brother was deep and genuine.

He confessed it. At his trial. It wasn't an accident

Sam tried to ignore the pounding in his head as the car cruised down the highway.

Dad got off I-15 at Enoch and two hours later they reached Lund. "I need to check out something, so I'll get you settled in a motel," Dad said.

"Can we have dinner first? At a diner?" Sam asked. He didn't know what else to say to make Dad stay with him without it sounding suspicious. Dad glanced at him and Sam continued, "I know it's kind of early, but if you're gonna be out, we can at least sit together for a meal."

Dad's eyes lingered on him, and finally he shrugged. "Okay, I guess I have some time for that."

He drove slowly down the street until he spotted a diner. Sam thought Dean would like to have Sam between him and the wall, where he was safest, and didn't quite know how to change the sitting arrangements. But the other boy simply waited a few steps away from the booth as Sam sat down next to Dad and then slid wordlessly into the seat opposite of them.

"What are you having?" Dad asked while scanning the menu.

"Chicken salad," Sam said.

"Whatever you allow me to have, sir," Dean said. He was sitting with his eyes down, his menu untouched. It was as if the entire talk at the first diner they had been to, the one wherein Sam had asserted Dean could eat whatever he wanted, had never happened. Sam understood why; Dean had noticed the change in him, reckoned he had fallen from Sam's grace, and slipped back into his most submissive demeanor. Sam wanted to speak up, to tell Dean he could still order his own food

as far as any other hunter is concerned, whatever he's getting is too good for him

but his mouth just wouldn't cooperate.

Dad looked up, passed his eyes from Dean to Sam and back, and at last said, "Hamburger for you?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The meal was as quiet as the drive, with each of them silently occupying himself with his plate. Sam hardly tasted the food, but he methodically put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and repeated until his plate was reasonably empty.

He was putting down his soda glass after taking a sip when a shadow fell over their table.

"Winchester."

The three of them looked up, and Dad said, "Hoggs."

Even without the man using Dad's real name, Sam could have told he was a hunter; it wasn't just the work boots and the flannel and the army coat with the bulge in the pocket that could have only been a gun. It was the air about him, the roughness of his features, that shadow behind his eyes, like he had seen too many things a normal person should never have seen.

"I thought you were still in South Dakota. Is that little Sammy?" The man smiled down at him. Sam didn't like that smile; it never reached his eyes.

"It's Sam," Dad said before Sam had a chance to. Dad's tone told him everything he needed to know about the relationship between the two men.

"Of course, Sam. They grow like weeds, don't they? And this…?" He turned his gaze onto Dean, who was staring at the table. Hoggs's expression changed as he looked Dean over. "Well, I'll be damned. I'd heard word, but I didn't believe it could be true. You've got a pair of steel ones the size of bowling balls, Winchester."

"At least one of us does." The other hunter must not have known Dad very well; if he had, he would have been running for cover right about now.

"Ain't ashamed to say I wouldn't touch this murderous piece of shit with a ten-foot pole, let alone take him in. If you ask me, they shouldn't've bothered with the collar in the first place. One bullet to the back of the head would've done the world a favor."

"You should've made yourself an observer at the trial if you're so zealous for justice to be served."

"I was in California at the time, otherwise I would've been there. And maybe I should've made the effort to, with the half-assed way the trial went. They didn't even bring a psychic in, or so I've heard. No wonder this fuckin' son of a bitch is still breathing."

"Mind your damned language in front of my son," Dad's growl was deep enough to send a tremor down Sam's spine.

"You let a child-killer near your son, and you're worried about my language?" Hoggs snorted a laugh. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? It'd do your kid good to let the fucker loose in the woods and have your boy hunt him down like the monster he is. Instead you let him actually sit at a table and eat food you bought for him, as if he were a normal person. Do you at least take the refund out of his ass? Because with that pretty face of his, you can make a buck-"

Dad's fist descending on the table made the cutlery rattle. "Shut your fucking trap, Hoggs." Sam scooted over quickly as Dad started to get up.

Hoggs had the good sense to step back when Dad towered over him. "Take it easy, will ya? I was just dispensing some friendly advice. Anyway, been nice chatting with you, but I've got to go. And by the way, if you're here for the demonic omens? Sorry to break it to ya, but there ain't nothing in this shithole. Better luck next time." He spun on his heel and started walking away, but after a few steps turned around. "I'll give you another piece of friendly advice, Winchester. Keep that walking filth of yours on a tight leash and don't let him step outta line, 'cause I ain't the only one who thinks he should be salted 'n burned, and the sooner the better."

Sam watched Dad's face as his eyes shot daggers into Hoggs's back. Without a word, Dad removed some bills from his pocket, dropped them on the table and headed for the door.

Dad pulled out the keys as they reached the car, but didn't unlock the doors. Instead, he looked at Dean. Sam also looked at him, for the first time since Hoggs came to their table. Dean was standing with his head dipped low, hands trembling slightly.

"Dean," Dad said. Dean raised his head; his face was pale, his green eyes swimming on the verge of tears. "Hoggs is an asshole, always has been. You hear me?"

Dean tried to speak, but for a moment couldn't quite make it. The "yes, sir" he managed at last was so faint it was barely audible. Dad nodded, and Sam saw an expression that must have been the closest to compassion he had ever seen on him as far as it concerned the collared one.

They climbed into the car, Sam again taking shotgun, but not for the same reason as before; he felt Dean needed some space. Sam glanced back at him when they started moving. Dean's arms were wrapped around his torso, his shoulders hunched, and as Sam watched, a single tear trailed down his cheek. He raised a hand to wipe it off, and then huddled into himself again.

They checked into a motel and carried the duffles inside, and Dad shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans. "I'm going to check out the demonic omens."

"But Hoggs just said there aren't any," Sam said.

"Hoggs isn't just an asshole, but a piss-poor hunter as well. I would be too if I took his word for it. So you boys stay put and watch yourselves."

"Do you think there're demons here?" Sam hoped his voice wasn't quivering.

"I don't know. But I'm gonna find out."

Dean went to lock the door behind Dad's back and lay down the salt-lines. Then he finished making the sofa bed and sat on it, staring down at his hands.

Sam watched him, trying to recall the uneasiness

not fear, it wasn't fear

he had felt ever since his talk with Bobby last night. He could remember it, but he wasn't feeling it, not anymore.

"Dean?" He said hesitantly.

Dean drew a breath, straightened his back and raised his head. "Sir."

"Don't… don't call me that."

"I'm sorry, I thought… I'm sorry."

"It's alright, it was my fault," Sam studied him carefully. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he clearly wasn't.

"That guy was an asshole, just like Dad said."

"But he was right," Dean's voice was tight. "Everything he said, he was right."

"It's not true," kid's head got bashed in on the edge of the table

Dean was about to reply, when there was a knock on the door. Dean reached for his gun and got up. "Who's there?"

"It's Hoggs. We met earlier? At the diner?" Dean and Sam exchanged glances. What did the other hunter want with them? And how the hell did he know where they were staying?

Dean motioned at Sam to move to the back of the room and cocked the gun. "Sorry, Mr. Hoggs, we don't accept social calls at this time."

"Well, that's too bad, son," came the voice behind the door. There was something off about it. Before Sam could figure out what it was, Hoggs continued, "But I'm afraid I must insist."

The door burst open, sending the deadbolt flying through the air. Dean was firing even before the door was fully open, but the man on the other side, even though he flinched some at the impact, stayed on his feet.

"Sam, get in the bathroom!" Dean released the used magazine and slapped in a new one.

"Not so fast," Hoggs gestured with his hand and the bathroom door swung shut. He gestured again, and Dean gasped as the gun was knocked out of his hand by some invisible force. "Wouldn't be of use to you anyway, but the noise might attract attention. Now, how about you break that nasty salt-line and invite me in?"

"Like hell," Dean snarled at him, and Hoggs tilted his head.

"You don't have the first clue about Hell, boy. Fine, the hard way it is," his hand moved lightly.

Dean let out a cry – more surprised than pained – when his body was suddenly jerked forward. He tumbled to the floor and was pulled across it by the same invisible force. He tried to grab at something as he was swooped to the door, but he was going too fast. Within seconds, his body was connecting with the salt-line and breaking it.

Hoggs gestured again and sent Dean back inside the room to crash against the wall. Then he smiled and stepped over the broken salt-line and into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. As Sam watched, he blinked and his eyes turned jet-black.

"Hello, Sam."

"Dean, it's a demon!" Sam scrambled back, trying to remember what it was that you fight demons with, but his rising panic drowned any coherent thought.

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Hoggs said. "Relax, Sam, I don't intend to hurt you."

Sam saw Dean trying to stagger to his feet. Hoggs followed his gaze and gestured with his hand. Dean's body jerked away from the wall, and then crashed into it again full-force and dropped to the floor.

"Dean!" Sam was about to move forward, but the demon took another step closer and Sam flinched back.

"He's not dead. Yet. We need him, too, just not as badly. So why don't you just calm down and listen to me?" Hoggs smiled sweetly. "We've been looking for you."

"Why?" Did silver hurt demons? They had a magazine loaded with silver bullets somewhere. Where was it?

"You have an important role to play for our general. He has been trying to contact you." Not silver, salt. He needed the salt rounds.

"I don't remember any demon trying to contact me."

"Oh, but you do," Hoggs smiled wider.

"I don't-" the dreams. The nightmares.

"That's right," the demon almost cooed. "You've heard him, haven't you? Azazel?"

"What does he want with me?" He would need the sawed-off for the salt rounds, but it was out of reach. They also had a pack of salt in Dad's duffle, if he could-

Suddenly, the demon screamed and a gust of white smoke rose off him. He turned, and Sam saw Dean had crawled up behind him and was holding a flask. As the demon faced him and started raising his hand, Dean waved the flask at him. The fluid that hit the demon elicited another screech and more smoke.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii," Dean recited. He stepped forward and threw some more holy water at Hoggs. The demon shrieked again, his body starting to twist as the exorcism progressed. "Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!"

Hoggs's head violently jerked back and a pillar of black smoke rushed out of his gaping mouth and seeped through the cracks between the door and its frame, leaving behind a faint stench of sulfur.

"Sam, you alright?" Dean was by Sam's side in a matter of seconds, his hands bracing Sam's arms. And not a moment too soon, because Sam's legs finally buckled underneath him. Dean helped him sit down on the bed and looked him over.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," Sam breathed out. Dean nodded, then went to find the cell phone and dialed.

"Sir, you should come back here. There was a demon," Dean's eyes flickered in Sam's direction. "He came looking for Sam."

Chapter Text

"What did he mean, you have a role to play for their general?" Dad asked. The three of them were seated facing each other on the beds in the motel room. Dad had locked the busted door to the best of his ability and the salt-line was again laid down, thicker than before.

"I don't know. That's what he said," Sam replied.

"And he said they contacted you."

"Yes. I think he meant the nightmares I've been having. It was like someone was whispering to me, but I couldn't make it out."

"Did you manage to see them? In your dream?"

Sam shook his head. "Just like… something evil. And yellow eyes." Dad's stare became pointed at that.

"Yellow eyes? Are you sure?!"

"Yeah. I saw them every time."

"But they didn't… they didn't reach you or touch you?"

Sam shook his head again. "At first, I was afraid they might, they were getting closer and closer. But lately there's been something… someone… like a presence. They protected me, pushed the evil back."

"A presence?"

Sam felt his cheeks heat some. "I don't know how else to describe it. When I'm in the nightmare, I see… I see you and Mom burning," he needed to pause and take a breath. "And I see yellow eyes, and hear voices that whisper to me, and it's all suffocating and it's like a bog of evil, and… and then this presence is there, like a shield of light. They drive the voices

(the demons)

away."

"Okay," Dad rubbed a hand down his face. "And what was it he said about Dean? That they need him also?"

"He said," Sam squinted a little, trying to recall the demon's words. "They need him too, but not as badly."

Dad looked at Dean. "Do you know what that means?"

"No, sir," the corner of Dean's mouth twitched slightly, and Dad asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing, sir. It's just that my dad used to say I'm the Devil's spawn, but I don't think he meant it literally."

Sam stared at Dean, and from the corner of his eye could see Dad do the same. Dad spoke first.

"I need to call Bobby and Pastor Jim and get them on board. We have a name now, 'Azazel'. There's a good chance that he's the yellow-eyed thing that's been trying to speak with you, Sam, or perhaps some other demon who's connected to him," Sam nodded, and Dad went on. "I want us out of this place. Now. If one demon had found us here, others will, too. Maybe they already know where we are." Dad got up and looked at Hoggs's body that was still lying on the floor. "You two pack everything. I'm gonna make the calls, and then we're outta here. We'll get rid of the body in the woods out of town."

Dad stepped out of the room with his phone. While Dean and Sam were packing the bags, Sam asked, "What your dad said to you, that you're the Devil's spawn. He was kidding, right?"

Dean kept his eyes averted. "Yeah, 'course he was."

But his answer came too quickly, Dean's face too tense, and Sam wasn't going to settle with it. "He wasn't kidding. Was he?" Dean didn't reply, and Sam moved a step closer to him. "Was he?"

Dean zipped up the duffle and let out a little breath. "Look, it's no big deal. The man's dead, it doesn't matter anymore. And it's not like it's the worst thing he ever called me, okay? So just… can we let it go? Please?"

"Dean-"

"Please, Sam. Please."

"Okay," the near-desperation in that plea alarmed Sam a little. "I'm sorry."

Dean just nodded and hoisted the duffles over his shoulder. Sam's eyes followed the older boy as he went out to put the bags in the car.

How did he kill his dad, Bobby?

Shot him in the heart.

He would let it go.

It's not like it's the worst thing he ever called me

For now.

Dad had brought the car as close to the door as he could and made sure there were no onlookers while he and Dean dragged Hogg's sheet-wrapped body out of the room and into the trunk. They put some blankets and their duffles over it, and Dad gunned the engine.

They found a stretch of woods some miles out of town and drove a little way into the trees. Sam stood watch with the sawed-off loaded with salt rounds while Dad and Dean built a fire and burned Hoggs's body to ashes. As they finished burying the remains and went back to the Impala, Sam slid into the back seat. Dean climbed in and gave Sam a short look but said nothing as he settled beside him.

Dad started driving again. The three of them kept quiet for a while, and then Sam asked, "Do you think Hoggs had been possessed at the diner?"

"I don't know," Dad said. "He might've been."

"And if he had been, possessed, I mean, then he was lying to us. Right?"

"I guess so," Dad looked up at him briefly through the rearview mirror.

Sam glanced to his side to see Dean's eyes on him. Dean looked away. "He wasn't lying," he mumbled.

"He was," Sam leaned a little forward. "He lied about the demonic omens, right, Dad?"

"If he'd been possessed already then yeah, he did," Dad replied. Sam turned to Dean, and the older boy gave him another short look.

"He wasn't lying about anything else," he said in a low voice.

"How do you know? Demons lie."

"What he said about not having a psychic at the trial, it was true. What he said about not being the only one that wants me salted 'n burned, it was true. What he said about doing the world a favor by putting a bullet-"

"Stop it," Sam pushed the words out, and they came small and trembling. "You saved me from that demon."

"I didn't save you. He wasn't going to hurt you, he said so."

"Demons lie, Dean."

This time the look Dean gave him was longer, and at last he nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay."

Sam wasn't sure if Dean was actually convinced or if he was just trying to placate Sam, and he was suddenly too tired to even care. He leaned sideways and lay down over the bench with his head on Dean's lap without even thinking about it. He felt Dean's fingers comb lightly through his hair before settling on his shoulder. Then he closed his eyes.

They were still driving when Sam woke up. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked through the window. The night was receding, just slightly.

"Where are we?" He asked.

"Back on I-70," Dad said.

"Why? Where are we going?"

"Lawrence, Kansas."

Chapter Text

Dad stopped at the next gas station for fuel, sandwiches and a chance to stretch their legs some. They sat on a bench, ate and watched the sun come up.

"What's in Lawrence?" Sam asked. Other than the house Mom died in

"We're going to see Missouri Moseley. You remember her?"

"Yeah," Sam had met her before, years ago. Warm, dark eyes, a fond smile and a cozy hug that smelled of cinnamon and carnations.

"If your nightmares are actually visions of some sort, or demons trying to communicate with you, she might be able to help."

Sam slanted a glance at Dean, who was listening quietly. "She's a psychic," Sam explained.

Dean nodded, but his face took on a strained expression before he dipped his head to finish the last of his sandwich. Sam was puzzled before he remembered.

They didn't even bring a psychic in, or so I've heard

"Bobby and Pastor Jim will meet us there," Dad balled up the sandwich wrapper and got up. As they reached the parked car, Dad held out the keys to Dean. "I need a few hours' sleep," he said. "Don't go over the speed limit, we ain't got time to deal with the cops right now."

"Yes, sir," Dean's eyes were wide, and something, almost a smile, hovered over his lips. Sam climbed into the front passenger seat next to Dean so Dad could sprawl on the back bench.

Dean started the car and grinned as the engine purred. Sam saw him pat the wheel lightly before grabbing it and easing the Impala back onto the road. He was still smiling when Sam glanced at him a long while later, his face set into a calm, carefree expression Sam had never seen on him with Dad around. He handled the car effortlessly, almost lovingly, like a cowboy riding a loyal, familiar horse.

They stopped for a quick lunch and went back on the road, Dad driving again. It was almost sundown when Sam saw the first sign stating they were nearing Lawrence. As if on cue, Dad's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and flipped it open.

"Jim, we're almost there. Yeah, sure, no problem. That's the church on Bob Billings Parkway? I know it. See you there."

"Was that Pastor Jim?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. We'll pick him up on the way."

The street lights were on by the time they entered Lawrence. They reached the Corpus Christi Catholic Church and Dad parked in the nearly-empty parking lot.

As they were climbing out of the car, a door opened in the big building and a man in black attire and a clerical collar came over to them, smiling.

"John!"

"Jim. Good to see you," the men shook hands, and Jim turned to Sam.

"Is that Sam? Can't be. When did you get to be so tall?" Despite himself, Sam almost giggled, and willingly returned Jim's affectionate hug. "How are you doing, Sam? Getting better, I hear?"

"Yeah, a little better."

"That's wonderful. You'll have to tell me all about staying with Bobby Singer, I bet you didn't leave a book in his study unread," Jim turned and looked at Dean, who was standing a few steps behind the Winchesters, staring at his toes. The pastor moved closer to him. "You must be Dean."

"Yes, sir," Dean didn't raise his eyes, and Jim took another step forward.

"I'm Jim Murphy. Or Pastor Jim. Or just Jim, if you prefer. I promise I'll answer either way." Dean probably saw Jim's extended hand, because he reached to shake it, and peeked at the pastor. Jim's light, warm smile widened some. "Pleased to meet you, Dean."

"Likewise, sir," having managed that, Dean dropped his eyes again.

"Ready to roll, Jim?" Dad asked.

"Yes. I just need to grab something from inside. Boys, want to come with me?"

Sam stepped readily forward, but Dean stayed where he was.

The pastor eyed him. "You don't want to come, Dean?"

"I… I shouldn't go in there," Dean said. Jim's smile didn't waver.

"Why is that?"

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to another, and when he spoke at last, Sam could hardly catch his words. "I'm a sinner, father."

Sam glanced at Pastor Jim. He was still looking at Dean, that gentle smile on his lips. "That may be, my son. But I can't think of a better place for a sinner to be."

This time Dean raised his head and practically gawked at the pastor. Then he blinked, and stepped forward to join Sam.

They followed Pastor Jim through the enormous nave and into a small office behind the altar. A pastor that was bent over something on the floor looked up.

"All done, Jim," he said. "Hi, boys."

"Thanks, Danny, I appreciate it."

"My pleasure," there was a smile on his jolly round face, but also a crease of worry. "You'll be careful, won't you?"

"You know I will. Goodnight."

Jim motioned for Dean to lift the four-gallon plastic container Pastor Danny had just finished screwing the cap on, and the three of them returned to the Impala.

"Holy water," Jim explained as they climbed into the car. "I have other stuff already at Missouri's, consecrated oil and salt and more crosses. If we're going to be dealing with demons here, we need to be prepared."

They reached Missouri's house and Dad parked at the curb. Sam noticed Bobby's truck there and was suddenly aware that he missed the gruff hunter. It felt like ages since they had left the salvage yard.

The front door opened and a woman stepped out. She stood there for a minute, framed by the light coming from behind her, and then moved across the driveway.

"Welcome," she said, eyes and silver jewelry sparkling. "Sam, honey, come here and let me take a look at you."

Sam went to her. The scents of cinnamon and carnations were just as he remembered, as was the warmth of the hug.

"Don't you worry, Sam," Missouri said gently. "We'll figure this out. The nightmares, everything." She pushed him away so she could take his face with both hands. "You're safe. Every single person is here to keep you safe."

"Thank you," he managed to say around the lump in his throat. Missouri smiled and patted his cheek. Then she turned toward Dad.

"About time you called me, John Winchester. How long were you going to wait until that damned pride of yours allowed you to seek help for your son?!"

"Good to see you too, Missouri," Dad ignored the sharpness of the words and reached to hug the woman; she leaned into it willingly enough, even though her expression indicated she would cuff him upside the head just as willingly. Then she disengaged and looked at Dean.

As when meeting Pastor Jim earlier, Dean was standing behind, almost at the very edge of the driveway, his eyes down. But now Sam had the feeling Dean wasn't just embarrassed or insecure; he was downright scared.

Missouri walked slowly over to him. Dean shifted a little, as if trying to refrain from stepping back. Missouri came to stand in front of him, eyeing him keenly. For a minute or so no one said a word, and then Missouri let out a soft breath.

"I'm so, so sorry, honey," she said. She reached up with both hands to cup his face. "So sorry for everything."

Dean looked up, the light glistening in the moisture in his eyes, his lips trembling, his breaths coming fast and shallow. Missouri held him for a bit longer, and then turned to Dad.

"Why is that nasty collar still on him?" Her voice took on an accusing tone.

Dad looked taken aback. "He's a murderer, Missouri."

Missouri glared at him, practically seething. "He is not. This child is innocent."

Chapter Text

It was time for dinner, but nobody seemed to be hungry. They were all seated in Missouri's cozy living room – Dad and Bobby on the couch with Sam between them, Pastor Jim on a chair he had brought in from the kitchen, and Missouri in her armchair. Dean sat on a footstool at her feet, his head bowed. He hadn't said a word yet.

Missouri was looking at Dean. "Tell me about the trial, John."

"There were three judges, with an elder presiding. The standard. About fifteen hunters serving as observers. One witness."

Bobby huffed. "That halfwit Creedy."

"Yeah. He was the one to come into Kubrick's RV and find the… the crime scene."

"The demon," Sam piped up. "He said there was no psychic at the trial."

Missouri tilted her head. "Maureen should have been there, it was her region. But the night before the trial… they say it was a heart attack. She was only forty years old, fit as a fiddle."

"They can hold a trial without a psychic, you know that," Dad said. "They didn't have anybody else who could've made it to Maine at a reasonable time, anyway."

Missouri's expression was indecipherable. "Go on."

"That was it. Dean confessed. The verdict was unanimous."

Missouri kept looking steadily at Dean. "Except he didn't confess," she leaned a bit forward and spoke softly. "Did you, honey? You didn’t say a word. They were talking around you, above your head. All they asked was did you kill your father and brother. And you nodded, and that was it. They thought they already knew whatever it was they needed to know. But they knew nothing, did they, child?"

Dean still didn't raise his head, but Sam could see he was starting to tremble.

"They didn't know about the beatings. The whippings. The hours kneeling on the floor memorizing prayers and scriptures. The days being locked in that tiny bathroom in the RV and the nights sleeping outside in the freezing cold. They didn't know about being so hungry your head was spinning. About the endless trainings, in the snow and in the rain and in the scorching heat. They didn't know about the words, did they, child? How they had cut so deep it seemed like you couldn't even breathe."

Dean was trembling hard now, his hands gripping the hem of his flannel tight enough to whiten the knuckles.

"They didn't know about the riding crop. Nobody knew. You never told. Not before the trial, not during, not after."

"What riding crop?" Bobby was talking quietly, as if not wanting to intrude upon Missouri's one-sided conversation, but Sam heard the steel edge in his voice, the tremor of rage.

"The riding crop his father kept under his bunk," Missouri was still talking softly, not taking her eyes off Dean. "The one he brought out on the last Sunday of each month, after returning from mass. The one he held while he told Dean to recount the sins he committed during that month. The one he used to administer one lash per sin, as penance."

Sam's stomach churned so hard he felt like he might vomit. "What if Dean didn't have any sins to confess?"

"Then Dean would be considered to be lying," Pastor Jim said. Sam glanced at him. There were glistening trails on his cheeks that started from his eyes and disappeared into his goatee. "And lying is a bigger sin, isn't it?"

Missouri nodded slowly. Then she smiled. "And then Adam came. What a ray of sunshine he was for you, wasn't he, honey? A sweet little thing that always had a smile for his big brother. You vowed to protect him, to keep him safe, to never let your father lay a hand on him, ever."

Dean let out a sob. Missouri leaned forward, gathered him in her arms and embraced him to her ample bosom. Dean hid his face against her, shaking. "It wasn't your fault, child," she said. Her hand was stroking his hair. "You only left him alone for a little while, didn't you? You couldn't have known your father would be back early that day, that he would be deranged. That he would push Adam against that table."

"It was Kubrick who killed Adam," Dad's voice was tight, his face pale and pinched. "And Dean killed him?"

"He didn't mean to," Missouri said, still stroking Dean's head. "But the man came at him with a knife. And the boy is well-trained, his father saw to that."

"Why didn't he say something at the trial? Why didn't he… why didn’t he talk? He would have been acquitted," Dad's voice was becoming even more strained.

Missouri shook her head. "He was in shock, John. And the hunters, they didn't care. They saw whatever they wanted to see."

"But he could've said something later," Sam's hands were trembling, and he clasped them together. "For two years, all those sponsors. They all thought he was a child-killer. They all treated him like he was a child-killer." And so did you, Sam

Missouri's voice came softer still. "He believed it was his fault. That Adam died because of him, as if he had killed the little boy himself. That he deserved everything that was done to him."

There was silence in the room, aside from Dean's teary, hitched breaths. Missouri started rocking slightly with Dean held to her. Sam raised a hand to touch his face; it was wet. He glanced over at Dad, at Bobby. The two tough, seasoned hunters didn't bother wiping the tears off their own faces.

It was Dean who moved first. Slowly, almost painfully, he pulled away from Missouri to settle back on the footstool and looked up at the psychic. Missouri smiled, and gently wiped his cheeks with her hand.

"You need some rest now, honey. There are beds for you and Sam in the guest room," Missouri stroked Dean's head one last time. "It will get better now, child. You'll see. Go lie down."

Bobby stood up, took Dean's arm and helped him to his feet. Dean was swaying, clearly unable to stand on his own. As Bobby walked him out of the living room, Sam felt Dad's arm wrapping around him and leaned into him.

"We need… we need to get the collar off him," Sam said. His voice came out small and lost.

"We will," Dad said. "But it has to be done by the elder who put it on, and we don't have time to go to Maine right now, not with demons on our ass."

"But he's not a murderer, he shouldn't be wearing it," Sam wanted to sound angry, determined, but he was drained.

"I know, Sammy. We all know it, now. And we'll set everything right. I promise we will." Sam nodded and pressed himself to Dad's side. Bobby came back and took his seat.

"I put him to bed," he said.

"Good. He needs the rest. Because there's one other thing," Missouri turned to Jim. "You'll need to do a soul search on him."

Jim looked at her attentively. "What for?"

"There's something else about him. Something deep and crucial, and I can feel it has everything to do with the demons and with Sam. If it was in his mind, I would've known what it is, but it isn't there. It's in his soul, and we need to get to it."

"For heaven's sake, woman," Bobby growled. "The kid's a wreck. He ain't in no condition to be put through a soul search."

Missouri swiveled in her armchair toward him. "Now you hear me, Bobby Singer. That boy is strong, stronger than all of you. What he's been through, with his father and with the collar, ain't none of you that would've survived like he has. And no, this ain't pretty, not what we just did and not what we're gonna be doing next. But Dean can take it. The wound's been infected for a while now, and for it to heal, we need to clean it out. All of it." She passed her eyes over Sam and then looked at Dad. "This has to be done. So we can save Sam. So we can save all of us."

Chapter Text

When Sam woke up the next morning, he realized it was the first time he had woken up before Dean did. He stayed in his bed and looked at the older boy on the bed across the room from him; in his sleep, Dean's face was calm, his forehead creasing only lightly.

Sam wondered how it was that Dean had suffered years of constant abuse with no one taking any notice. Were there no telltale signs at all? Was there no teacher, neighbor, even a random store clerk who could have paid a little more attention before the ghost train that was Dean's life finally wrecked two years ago?

But he shouldn't have wondered. He was sure Dean had concealed any signs that might have given away what was happening to him, just like he had concealed what really happened in that RV on the day his brother and father died. Sam felt his throat tightening at the thought of how long Dean would have kept his silence about it if he hadn't met Missouri.

Dean shifted and opened his eyes. He almost immediately turned his head to look at Sam, even though Sam suspected his sight hadn't even focused yet. He blinked, lifted a hand to rub his eyes and glanced at his watch. Then he sat up.

"Why are you up so early? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No," Sam really hadn't. He actually couldn't remember dreaming at all. "I'm okay. How do you feel?"

"I'm fine."

But Sam shook his head. "You're not fine, Dean. Not after last night, Hell, not after your entire life."

"Would you like me to sit in a corner and shiver? Would that be better?" Dean was looking at him steadily. All of a sudden, Sam felt ridiculous.

"Of course not. But just… you don't have to… you can tell me if you need help, or to talk, or anything. Okay?" Dean was still looking at him, and Sam got up, walked over to the other bed and sat by Dean's side. "Okay?" He repeated, looking up into Dean's eyes.

At last Dean nodded. "Okay," he said, and Sam though it almost sounded like "thank you".

They got dressed and went down to the kitchen. Missouri was by the stove and Dad sat at the table. He put down the cup he had been sipping from as the boys entered, and Missouri spoke merrily without turning her head.

"Good of you two to join us. Got a big breakfast going since nobody here had any supper yesterday, so why don't y'all take a seat."

Sam went over to the table and sat down, but Dean stayed by the door, glancing carefully at Dad. Sam was about to say something, but Dad spoke first, "You don't have to do that. I'm not your sponsor anymore."

"I'm still collared, sir," Dean replied, his tone respectful.

"Not for long. As soon as we're done with this business, we'll go up to Maine to get it off."

Dean reached his hand to touch the collar, not meeting Dad's eyes. "It's not off yet, sir."

"We all know it shouldn't have been on you in the first place. There's no reason for you to be under anybody's authority, is there?"

"No, sir," Dean was nearly whispering, his fingers curling around the collar as if he was about to rip it off.

"John," Missouri was watching from her place by the stove. Dad turned to her, a little annoyed, but his expression changed as he looked at her face. "You can't do this to him."

"Do what? Give him freedom?"

Missouri nodded. "He's like an eagle that's been raised in a tiny cage. You can't just open the door one day and expect him to fly. He doesn't know how."

Dad looked back at Dean. The older boy still had his fingers clutched around the collar, but now it appeared to Sam like he was holding it to anchor himself down.

It's not like I've ever been anywhere of my own free will

Dad got up and walked slowly over to where Dean was standing and halted in front of him. "Dean, look at me," Dad's voice was surprisingly gentle. Dean raised his eyes. "I'm sorry I beat you before. I really am. You didn't deserve it, it was wrong and I promise I'll never do it again. Do you believe me?"

Dean seemed to consider that, and then nodded.

"I said I'm not your sponsor anymore, but it doesn't mean I'm kicking you out. It only means you don't have to wait for permission to eat, or sleep, or use the bathroom or whatever. I'm gonna give you the same kind of orders I give Sam, and you can have as much freedom as he does. Can you work with that?"

Dean considered again, nodded again. "Yes, sir."

Dad nodded, too. "Okay, then. Come get breakfast."

"Sir?" Dad turned halfway back to his seat. Dean had moved a step forward. "Do you still need me to watch out for Sam?"

Sam was dumbfounded at the plea he heard in those words. Dad studied Dean for a minute before replying, softly, "Yes, yes I do."

Dean's hand dropped away from the collar. He went to sit next to Sam, drew a breath and straightened his back. Then he smiled.

"It smells wonderful, Ms. Moseley," he said.

"My, ain't you a sweet-talker, boy," Missouri put a plate of steaming eggs on the table. "You better finish every last bite of this. You too, Sam."

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused and dug in.

After breakfast Dad sat Sam and Dean down to go over the lore Bobby came up with about Azazel; he was, indeed, a demon, but not just any demon – a Prince of Hell, one of the earliest of demons to be created by Lucifer himself, and therefore much more powerful.

"He's said to be immune to holy water and salt, and able to walk on holy ground. He can also teleport himself from one place to another, fast enough to dodge bullets," Sam recited from Bobby's notes and looked up at Dad. "How can we fight this thing?"

"We'll think of something," Dad replied, but his voice was grim.

They continued reading in silence for a while longer, until Bobby and Pastor Jim came in.

"Went on a round of churches and libraries, found some more books," Bobby said. He put a pile of tomes on the coffee table, raising little grey puffs of dust.

"And it never occurred to you to wipe them clean before you bring them into my house?" Missouri glared at the books and at Bobby with equal measures of disdain. Bobby grumbled under his beard but took the books off to the kitchen.

"I've purified myself with confession and prayer," Pastor Jim said. "And I've been to see the Bishop and received his blessing. We can go ahead, if Dean's ready."

"Ready for what?" Dean looked from Pastor Jim to Dad to Missouri.

"Do you know what a soul search is, Dean?" The pastor asked.

Sam glanced at Dean to see his face paling a little. "You want… you want to do it to me?"

"Dean," they looked up at Missouri. She was talking gently, her expression compassionate. "I know it's hard, and I wouldn't ask you to go through this, especially not right now. But I can feel there is something we need to find out, something that's in your soul, and this is the only way to get to where it's buried."

"It has something to do with this?" Dean gestured at the books and papers Sam and he had been reading. "With the demon? With Sam?"

"I believe so," Missouri tilted her head a little. "We have no time to look for another way, honey. I wish we could make it easier for you, I really do."

Dean's eyes turned to Sam. He tried to smile. "It's okay. I'll be fine." He touched Sam's arm briefly before drawing a breath and standing up. "How do you want me?"

"Why don't you lie here on the floor," Pastor Jim said. Dad grabbed a cushion off the couch and passed it to him to put on the living room carpet. Dean laid himself on the ground with his head on the cushion. Even though he was trying to look calm, Sam could see he was frightened. He went to Dean's side, knelt on the floor and took Dean's hand. He didn't know if he was allowed to do it, but he didn't really care.

Dean looked up at him. He didn't smile now, but Sam felt Dean's hand tightening over his. "Don't worry, Sammy," he whispered. "Everything's okay. We're gonna figure this out and keep you safe, nothing's gonna hurt you."

It's okay, Sam, everything's okay. It's just a bad dream. I'm here, nothing's gonna hurt you

Sam felt the bell going off louder in his head. He was about to speak, but Pastor Jim was already kneeling by Dean's other side, and Sam closed his mouth.

The pastor dipped his fingers in a bowl of what Sam figured was holy water, and touched the top on Dean's head. He went down touching his forehead, throat, chest over the heart and then a little lower, over the solar plexus. He finished with light taps over his navel and groin, dipped his fingers in the holy water, and repeated the cycle. Sam realized, to his surprise, Pastor Jim was touching Dean's Chakras.

The pastor went over them for the third time before laying one hand flat on Dean's forehead and the other on his chest and starting to chant very quietly.

For a few minutes nothing happened. Pastor Jim was chanting steadily with his hands over Dean's body, and Dean lay there with his eyes closed. And then his breath caught, and Sam felt the grip of his fingers tightening. He looked at the hand the pastor had on Dean's chest; it was pressing down, as if the pastor was trying to push it into the boy's body.

"It's okay, Dean, just relax," Missouri said. She was seated in her armchair, leaning forward intently. "We're almost there."

Sam looked from her to Pastor Jim, whose face was wearing an expression of concentration. He figured the pastor was reaching into Dean's soul, and the psychic was reading the pastor's mind so she could see whatever he saw.

Dean gasped again, then took a deliberate, shaky breath. "Don't… don't touch it too much, f-father," his voice was labored. "It's t-tainted."

Without opening his eyes, Pastor Jim smiled. "Eighteen years of suffering have washed your soul clean, my son. It shines, shines brighter than any other soul I've seen before. The soul of a true righteous man."

Confusion washed over Dean's face, but it quickly disappeared as he winced and groaned in pain.

Dad got up from where he was sitting with Bobby on the couch and took his belt off. He knelt by Dean's head and doubled the belt over. "Bite down."

Dean let him put the belt in his mouth and tightened his jaws over it. Dad stayed where he was, hands resting on Dean's shoulders.

Pastor Jim resumed his chanting, and Dean's reactions started to become more intense. Muffled sounds were coming through the teeth clenched over the belt, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes down to his temples. His grip on Sam's hand was painful, but Sam didn't mind; he put his other hand over Dean's.

"I don't see anything," Pastor Jim's voice was strained. Beads of sweat covered his brow. "Nothing we didn't already know."

"Dig deeper," Missouri said.

"There's nothing there, Missouri."

Missouri leaned even further. "There is, can't you feel it? Just beyond."

"Beyond?" Pastor Jim pressed his hand down on Dean's chest and Dean's head jerked back, a strangled cry filtering around the belt in his mouth. Dad held him down with his hands on Dean's shoulders.

"For Christ's sake, Jim," now Bobby was crouching beside them. "Be careful, Goddamnit."

"You're nearly there," Missouri was half-rising from her seat. "Go beyond. Go back. Can you see it?"

The pastor's face scrunched up. He ducked his head and his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He chanted some more and Dean's body spasmed under his hands.

"Balls!" Bobby moved to straddle Dean's legs. "Finish this already!"

"Almost there," Missouri's eyes were fixed on the pastor. Dean spasmed again and the hand that was holding Sam's clenched so tight Sam's eyes were tearing up.

And then the pastor let out a huge breath and flinched away from Dean. He looked up, and his eyes were the size of saucers as he raised them to meet Missouri's. "This… did you see?"

Sam looked at Missouri. The psychic's face wore an expression as shocked at the pastor's.

"I did," she whispered. "My dear sweet Lord, I did."

Chapter Text

"He is what?!"

Dad was pacing around the living room as if he couldn't bear to stand still even for a second.

"Your son," Missouri repeated.

"That's not possible," Dad reached the edge of the room, turned and started pacing in the other direction. "He's what, eighteen? I was already married to Mary for a few years before he was born, and I was never unfaithful to her. Never."

Sam sat on the couch by Dean's side. He had wrapped the older boy in a blanket, but Dean was still pale and trembling a little. He was holding a cup of tea Bobby made him, but hadn't raised it to his lips until Sam put his hands over Dean's to make him move them. Despite the blanket and the hot mug, Dean's hands were ice cold.

"He is also Mary's son," Pastor Jim said.

Dad let out a bark that was half-laughter, half-groan. "Are you listening to yourself, Jim? Mary didn't have another child, only Sam."

"That's not true," Sam said. Dad halted and looked at him. "She had another child. Before me."

Dad's expression softened some. "She didn't have that child, Sammy. It was a miscarriage. The baby died in her womb."

"His soul didn't," Missouri said. Now Dad looked at her, but she was looking at Dean. "That baby's soul wanted to be born."

"So what are you saying?" Bobby asked. "That when Mary lost her baby, his soul possessed another baby's body?"

Missouri chuckled briefly. "Not possessed, Bobby, it ain't no demon. It entered a new fetus like any other soul does when it comes naturally into our world. The flesh was not created by you and your wife, John, but the soul is your son's. The son you should have had. The son you lost."

Dad looked from Missouri to Dean, who sat motionless, staring at the coffee table in front of him. "And that… that's what you saw?"

"We followed Dean's soul to its source," Pastor Jim said. "Beyond his birth and way back. We saw it, crystal clear. His soul was inside Mary, in the unborn child in her womb. And then the baby died, the soul could have gone to heaven, but it didn't. It found a way to be born. There's no mistake, John."

Dad was still looking at Dean, and his voice came softer, less stable. "Did the soul… did it know it would be born to that son of a bitch Kubrick? That it would have that life?"

"It probably knew," Pastor Jim replied.

"Then why? Why did it want to be born so bad that it would be willing to go there?"

Missouri looked up at him. "There was another thing we saw when Jim searched Dean's soul. Mary's miscarriage, it wasn't a natural thing, John. The baby didn't just die. He was murdered."

Dad stared at her in shock. "What the hell are you talking about? I was there. We were alone in the house. Nobody hurt Mary, it just happened."

"Tell me what happened," Missouri said.

Dad raised a hand to rub his forehead. "We went to sleep. Mary woke me up, she was shaking and crying, I couldn't make out at first what was wrong. I tossed the covers aside and the bed was-" he stopped to take a breath. "There was blood. It looked like everything was soaked. I called an ambulance." He took another breath. "But all the doors and windows were locked, we were alone, and Mary was fine, she wasn't hurt."

"Mary wasn't hurt, but was she fine?" Missouri tilted her head. "What was she like the days before the miscarriage?"

Dad sighed, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead again. "Hell, I don't know. She was…" he drifted a bit and the motion of his hand seemed to freeze. "She had nightmares. Bad ones. We didn't think anything of it and she didn't want to take sleeping pills because of the pregnancy, said if they kept coming she'd ask her doctor, but… then she lost the baby and…" his hand dropped and he focused his eyes on Missouri. "Could it have been the demon? The one that's been trying to contact Sam? Did he cause her nightmares? Did…" he was looking from Missouri to Pastor Jim and back. "Did the demon kill our son?"

"We can't be sure, John," Pastor Jim said. "We could only see whatever the soul did. It doesn't know for sure if it was the demon, but I believe it's probable."

"But why would he kill John and Mary's baby?" Bobby asked.

"Because of me," Sam said. He could see from the corner of his eye all the adults turning to look at him, but he fixed his eyes on Dean. "Because the demon didn't want Dean there when he started contacting me."

"What are you talking about, Sam?" Dad asked, but Sam was still looking at Dean.

"It was you, wasn't it? In my dreams. The presence that protected me from the evil."

Dean turned his head and spoke for the first time since the soul search. "I just… I just wanted to calm you down when you had those nightmares. I don't know anything about getting into your dreams." He looked up at Dad. "I didn't know anything about my soul being in your son's body. I didn't know anything about this demon or about the nightmares or about any of this. I swear to God I didn't know, sir."

Dad sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch and leaned to put a hand on the side of Dean's face. "It's okay. It's okay. I know you didn't. It's okay, Dean." Sam could see Dad's thumb patting Dean's cheek, gently. Then he let go so he could put his hands over Dean's and make him take another sip of tea.

"So Dean can go into Sam's dreams?" Bobby asked. "Because what, his soul was his brother's?"

"Seems like it," Missouri said. "Maybe the demon knew this soul would be able to protect Sam in due time and killed the child before he was born. But the soul fought its way back into the world."

Sam frowned. "But I could've passed a lifetime without meeting Dean. There were so many things that could've been different, just a little, but enough so that we never would've met."

Pastor Jim smiled. "And yet you've met, Sam. Mysterious ways and so on. And now we have the advantage the demon tried to keep us from having."

"But Hoggs said they needed Dean too," Sam said. "Why would the demon kill him before, if he needs him now? It makes no sense."

"I'm guessing the demon doesn't know who Dean is," Bobby said.

"But what does he need him for?"

"I should go," Dean said. Sam turned to him.

"What?"

"Those demons need me. They'll come for me. I'm putting you all in danger," Dean looked up at Dad. "You have to send me away, sir. For your son's protection. Please."

Dad leaned a little further and took the cup out of Dean's hands so he could hold them between his big palms. "I'll have none of this. None, you hear? I'm not letting you go out there so the demons can get you. Besides, they're after Sam, too. Sending you away would solve nothing."

Dean looked at him for a moment longer, and then nodded once, although he seemed resigned rather than relieved. Dad nodded back at him and straightened his back.

"Okay," he said. "Sam, time for your nap. And Dean, you need some rest too."

"I'm fine, Dad. I want to help with the research."

"Upstairs and into bed. Now. Both of you."

Sam and Dean gave a double "yes, sir", and got up. Sam was ready to reach out and hold Dean in case he was unsteady on his feet, but Dean seemed to be walking fine, so Sam turned to lead the way into the guest room they shared.

He couldn't fall asleep. There was too much on his mind. At last he turned his head aside to look at Dean, who was lying with his eyes open, staring up into the air.

"Dean?" Sam waited for the other boy to look at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Sam rolled on his side so he could face Dean. "You promised."

"What?"

"That you'd tell me if you need help, or to talk. You don't have to talk and you might not need help, but at least tell me the truth."

Dean rolled his eyes to stare up again. After a moment he said, "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what any of this means. And I'm-" he paused to take a breath. "I'm scared. I'm scared you'll somehow get hurt because of me."

Sam braced himself up on his elbow. "That's not going to happen."

"It's a fuckin' Prince of Hell, Sam."

"Yeah, and we've got a psychic, a pastor and the two best damned hunters in the northern hemisphere. And we've got you."

Dean let out a snort of humorless laughter. "Right, 'cause I'm so fucking awesome. A fucked up, collared loser. I couldn't save my brother, and all I had to do was just fucking be there."

"You have a second chance now," Sam said quietly. Dean turned his head toward him. "I'm your brother, too."

"You're not," Dean's voice was strained. "It's a past life I don't even remember. Sure I would wish-" he cut himself off, rolled his eyes a bit and blinked before looking back at Sam.

Sam propped himself higher up and spoke as softly as he could. "I know you miss Adam. I'm not trying to replace him, I never would. But I am your brother, Dean. That you were born elsewhere makes no difference. You're the brother I should've had if not for the demon. And we're still connected, otherwise you wouldn't have been able to come into my nightmares. You came there to protect me, and I know you'll be able to do it against anything, even a Prince of Hell."

For a few long moments Dean just stared at Sam, his green eyes somewhat shiny. Then he pushed the covers aside and got up.

"You need to get some sleep," he said, a bit hoarsely. He bent to ease Sam back under his blankets and tuck them around him.

Sam grabbed his hand. "Stay here."

Dean looked at him, and for a moment Sam thought he'd shake his hand off, but instead his expression seemed to soften.

"Scoot over," he said.

Sam moved to let Dean sprawl on the bed and then laid by his side and leaned against him with his cheek resting on Dean's chest. He closed his eyes as Dean's arms wrapped around him. It should have been weird, to be cuddled like that by an older boy he had met barely a month ago, but it wasn't.

It felt like home.

Chapter Text

When Sam and Dean went downstairs an hour later, there were voices coming from the living room. Although they sounded heated, even urgent, they were hushed enough that Sam couldn't make out what they were saying.

All the adults clammed up when they came in, and Dad rose to his feet.

"Did you get enough rest?" He asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Anything new on the demon?"

"We're working on it," Dad said, a bit too casually. "You boys want a bite to eat? Let's go see what we can whip up for you." He started toward the kitchen, but Sam stayed put.

"What's going on, Dad?"

"Same as before. Going over the lore, trying to find a way to beat the demon."

Sam squinted at his father. "There's something else."

"Bobby's looking into some Assyrian legends that might have something to do-"

"Dad!" Sam could feel himself glowering as he took a step forward, because Dad was flat-out lying to him. Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it away. "What are you holding back? Bobby? Pastor Jim?" He passed his eyes from one slightly-alarmed man to the other. Neither of them opened his mouth. Sam turned to Dad once more, when a merry laughter rose from the armchair.

They all looked over at Missouri, whose eyes were sparkling in amusement. "Did you really think you could distract the boy?" She said. "You raised no fool, now, did you, John Winchester?" She laughed again as Dad's face grimaced.

"He doesn't need to be bothered with this, Missouri."

"Be bothered with what? What did you find out?" He could feel Dean's hand on him again, but let it stay there this time.

Dad rubbed a hand down his face. Then he sighed and let it drop away. "Take a seat."

Bobby made room for Sam and Dean on the couch. Dad remained standing and paced a little to one side and then back again. Then he stood still and took a breath.

"The demon, Azazel. He's the one who killed your mother."

"What?!" Sam didn't even realize he was rising from his seat until Dean tugged him back down. "H-how do you know that?!"

"About a month after it happened, I reached Missouri. She tried to help me find out what it was that killed your mom, but all she could see was the yellow eyes, and that was all I had to go on for all those years. Until now."

"Until I told you I saw it in my nightmares," the world was revolving around Sam; if he hadn't been sitting, he would have fallen down.

Dad nodded.

"So that demon… he killed Dean before he was born. He killed Mom. And he… he wants me? What for?"

"Azazel is more than just a demon," Pastor Jim said.

"Yeah, I know, he's a Prince of Hell," Sam said.

"Yes. But he's also a general."

"Hoggs said that, and I didn't get it," Sam looked over at the pastor. "A general, like, of an army? What army?"

"The army of Hell," said Pastor Jim. "He leads Lucifer's demonic legions."

"Leads them where?" Sam could feel his hands growing cold and clutched them together.

"We don't know yet, but it's fair to assume he would like them to take over the earth."

And now not only his hands, but Sam's entire body felt like it was dipped in an ice-bath. He took a shaky breath, then another one. "I won't let him."

"What?" Dad stepped a little closer, and Sam raised his eyes to him.

"I won't let him do it."

"None of us are gonna let him, Sammy."

"Yeah, but if he's trying to contact me, then it means he thinks he can maybe use me to get what he wants. And I'm not gonna let him."

Dad's expression hardened. "He's not gonna get anywhere close enough for you to have to stop him by yourself. We'll find him before he finds you."

Sam was silent for a moment and then said, "Maybe… maybe you need to let him find me."

"What?" Dad tilted his head, as if trying to make sure his hearing was intact. Sam breathed in and straightened his back.

"Maybe we need to draw him out. Make him meet us on our terms."

"Absolutely not," Dad said with finality. "Now, how-"

"Why not?"

Dad stared at him with his mouth slightly open before he came to. "What do you mean, why not? Do I really have to explain to you why letting a Prince of Hell get to you is a bad idea?!"

"He doesn't want to hurt me, Dad. He needs me for something and he needs me alive."

"We don't know that."

"Yes, we do. Why aren't I dead?"

Dad seemed confused for a minute. "What?"

"He could've killed me before I was born like he killed Dean. He could've killed me afterwards like he killed Mom. He could've had the demon that possessed Hoggs kill me in Lund. And he didn't."

"He didn't kill me, either," Dad said. "That doesn't prove anything."

It was a good point, and Sam pondered it for a minute. "Well, you weren't there when Hoggs came, and killing you at any other time… I don't know. Maybe Azazel needed you to take care of me so he could contact me when the time was right for him. Or maybe he just doesn't consider you a threat."

"That's a lot of maybe, Sam. I'm not going to put you at risk based on some shady hypothesis."

"I'm already at risk."

"Yes, and no need to voluntarily put you at any more risk than that."

"But I can help," tears of frustration were prickling his eyes.

"You can help by staying safe."

"Why should I be safe, Dad? Why should I be safe when everybody else is putting themselves in harm's way for me?" He wiped angrily at his face. "Azazel killed two people because of me. Two family members. How many more are you gonna let him kill before you find him? If you find him?"

There were tears weaseling into his voice, and then Dean's arm was around his shoulders, and Sam wanted to lean into him, but didn't; he kept his back straight and his eyes on his father.

"You have no idea where he is, do you? And you don't know how to get to him. I'm the best chance we've got. The only chance we've got."

"No. We'll find another way," Dad was seemingly sure and decisive, but there was this little tremor, only a hint of it, and Sam knew Dad had doubts.

"You are going to face the demon anyway," Sam did his best to clear his voice of defiance, to make it sound reasonable. "But we can get him to come to us, where and when we're ready for him."

"With you as bait," Dad said. But not with the same finality as before.

"You're not seriously considering this?!" Dean still had his arm around Sam, but he was looking at Dad. "I'm sorry to be speaking out of line, sir, but you can't use Sam as bait. You can't."

"We have to, Dean. We need to lure the demon to us," Sam said. Dean turned to him.

"It's insane. You're insane."

"I'm not. I don't want anybody else hurt because of me."

"So you'll just throw yourself at the demon? And what're you gonna do, use those giant muscles of yours to gank him?" Dean looked back up at Dad. "I'll be the bait, sir. Hoggs said they need me, too."

"He said they don't need you as badly," Sam countered. "Come on, Dean. It's me the demon wants, and you know it."

"I don't fucking care, I'm not letting you do such a stupid-ass thing-"

"Okay, that's enough," Bobby's voice cracked like a whip. "You idijts need to calm the hell down. And you, Dean, watch your goddamned language."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Sam expected Dean to cringe at the reprimand, but despite his respectful tone, he didn't even drop his eyes. It actually made Sam feel better.

"Ain't none of you gonna be bait," Bobby said.

"Not Sam," Dean said. "But I-"

"You neither."

Dean's back straightened some. "I'm not afraid."

Bobby sighed. "I didn't think you were. But you see, these past weeks I've researched the collar. It's old magic, very old."

"Ancient Egyptian binding spell," Sam said. Bobby nodded.

"That's right. The most powerful binding spell known to us. But it wasn't meant to bind humans," he paused for a moment, his eyes focusing on Dean. "It was created to chain demons."

Sam realized his mouth was gaping and snapped it shut. Dean raised a hand to touch the collar.

"Demons?" He asked weakly. "Don't the hunters know… how come they're using this?"

Bobby snorted. "Because they did piss-poor job on the research, that's why. Ancient Egyptian papyruses are difficult enough to decipher, I'll give you that, but had they bothered to check the Scroll of Cerberus – the original Greek, mind you, not the abridged, incompetently translated version – they would've easily come by the same information I did."

Dean still had his hand on the collar. "So what does that mean?"

"It means we don't know how the hunter who created the collar altered the spell to do it and what the effects might be when it comes to confronting Azazel. As long as you're wearing it, we need to keep you as far away from demons as possible. You hear me, boy? Don't confuse being a hero with being stupid."

Dean let his hand drop back to his lap. "Yes, sir."

Sam and Dean spent the rest of the afternoon and evening digging into the pile of books Bobby had stacked between them on the kitchen table. They hardly talked while leafing through yellowing pages that nearly crumbled to the touch. Sam glanced over at Dean every once in a while; he could see the older boy reaching to touch the collar repeatedly, a thing Sam hardly saw him do before.

Sam couldn't find anything new or useful on Azazel. The truth was, he wasn't trying. He had another objective in mind.

The houses of both Bobby and Missouri were warded with every kind of hex, spell and sigil known to hunters. But Sam had had the nightmares in which the Prince of Hell tried to contact him while he was at Bobby's; he had had no nightmares last night while at Missouri's. It could have meant nothing, or it could have meant Missouri had a protective ward Bobby didn't.

It was tricky trying to find out what the ward might be, and there was no way Sam was going to let anyone else know what he was planning. He didn't know what he would do if Missouri were to come into the kitchen and read his mind, but she stayed in the living room with Pastor Jim and Dad. When the time for dinner drew near, Sam deliberately focused his attention on a book that listed incantations used in the Far East to defend against demons; it was actually very interesting – and conveniently relevant to their cause – and the information flooded his mind, burying any thought about the specific ward he needed to find.

They kept working for a while after dinner, until Dad came into the kitchen. "Time for bed, boys."

Dean closed the book in front of him and gathered the papers he scribbled his notes on. "That's all I could find, sir. It's next to nothing, and none of it's new, anyway."

Dad glanced at the notes and nodded. "It's okay. We'll continue this tomorrow." He squeezed Dean's shoulder, lightly, and turned to Sam. "How'd you do?"

"Not so great."

"We're gonna keep trying, okay? We'll figure it out," Sam stood up, and Dad came to wrap his arms around him. "We'll figure it out, Sammy."

Sam leaned against him and closed his eyes. Dad and Bobby and Pastor Jim and Missouri, they might find a way to fight Azazel tomorrow, or the day after that, or never. But Sam couldn't wait for them to, not when he knew there was something he could do right now.

Dean tucked the blanket around Sam as they turned in. "You want me to stay with you?"

Sam did. He wanted it so much. He was so damned scared, and Dean's arms around him would take the fear away. But he couldn't afford it. He smiled at Dean.

"No, I'm fine, you should get some rest."

"It's okay, I can get my rest with you just the same," Dean moved as if to climb into Sam's bed like he did before, but Sam put his hand on Dean's.

"No, I want you to sleep comfortably. I'm really fine, Dean. Don't worry about me."

Dean looked at him doubtfully, and Sam did his best to maintain a carefree smile. At last Dean nodded and reached a hand to stroke Sam's hair. "Okay. Goodnight then."

"Goodnight," Sam whispered. He pulled the comforter up and closed his eyes.

He stayed that way for a long time, taking long, even breaths and listening. He could tell when Dean fell asleep – funny, to be able to tell that kind of thing about a boy he had known for such a short period of time. He waited a little longer in order to be sure Dean was sound asleep, then got out of bed.

The murmur of the adults' conversation drifted from downstairs through the stairwell. Sam paused to make sure he heard all four of them so he could be certain none had come upstairs while he was in bed.

The ward should have been placed in mid-height on the northern wall of the house for maximum effect, which meant he had to look for it about a foot above the floor. He started with the bathroom, checked all along the wall, then crawled carefully along the hall, squinting at the wallpaper that, combined with the dim lighting, was making it hard to detect the ward.

He went on to the hall closet, moved some cardboard boxes and checked the wall. Nothing. It was impossible, it had to be there.

Sam took a breath and started over, slower this time. Maybe he should have brought a flashlight, but he hadn't wanted any of the grown-ups getting suspicious if they found him with it; as it was, he could say he went to use the bathroom, saw something on the floor and went to get a better look, but a flashlight in his hand would send his story down the drain. He made himself look the wall over inch by inch, scanning it up from the baseboard to his eye-level just in case he calculated the height wrong.

As he crouched to look behind an end table with a vase of flowers on it that stood in the middle of the hall, he saw it. The sigil was tiny, but it was definitely there, and it was definitely the correct one. Sam scratched the edge of the sigil with his pocket knife, just enough to damage it. Then he returned to his bed, lay down and closed his eyes.

Sam debated with himself if he should take a sleeping pill; he was afraid he was too hyped to fall asleep, but on the other hand, with the pills he would be down too deep to dream at all. He would just need to do his best.

This was not going to work. Sam was too stressed out, too nervous to fall asleep. He tried to lie as motionless as possible, to count sheep and goats and dogs and cows and kittens and whatever he could think of. He took deep breaths and let the air out slowly. But he was still wide awake.

He thought about cutting a sleeping pill in half; it might not sink him too deep to allow dreams through. He opened his eyes, ready to get out of bed and fetch the pill.

He wasn't in Missouri's guest room anymore.

Chapter Text

Sam looked around, trying to take in his new surroundings. He was standing in a barren field, its ground cracked and burnt. Misshapen trees and bushes dotted the landscape, their naked branches reaching out like black, twisted fingers unto the grey sky. In the distance he could see mountains, bald and sharp.

Thunder rumbled and a few seconds later a huge bolt of lightning struck down from the heavy clouds and hit the earth about half a mile away with a geyser of sparks, making Sam flinch.

He scanned the horizon for any signs of life or civilization and could find none. There were just the creepy-looking vegetation and the clouds racing overhead.

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," Sam mumbled. He turned and froze in place as he saw the man standing less than twenty feet away.

He was of average height and build, with short-cropped hair that had started to turn silver, and a cleft in his chin. He was dressed in a brown coat layered over a dark-blue shirt, and when he smiled at Sam he revealed square, ivory-colored teeth and deep wrinkles on either side of his mouth.

His eyes were yellow.

"Howdy, Sam."

"It's you," Sam breathed out and took a step back. Azazel's smile widened.

"In the flesh. Well, not literally so, but yes, it's me," he spread his arms out and took a tiny bow. "So glad we could finally meet up and chat, I've been waiting a long time for this. You're not an easy person to contact; it wasn't until the illness weakened your barriers that the call went through."

"You killed my mother," Sam could feel his voice trembling a little, and not only out of fear. "You killed my brother."

The demon tilted his head some. "Oh, that was so long ago. Are we still holding a grudge? It was all for a good cause, Sam. They had to be removed so they wouldn't get in the way."

"In the way of what?" Sam's fists were clenching.

"Of you, fulfilling your destiny."

"My destiny? What destiny?"

Azazel took a step forward, and Sam took one back. The demon's smile seemed to widen even more. "You see, thirty years ago, a hunter discovered the long-forgotten Egyptian Binding Spell."

"The hunter who created the collar."

"That good-for-nothing nitwit had no business messing with something he didn't have the first clue about. He thought the spell could only chain humans, but upon creating the collar, the idiot sealed up Hell."

Sam gaped at that. "But… but there are still demons up here on earth."

"Those who were topside stayed there, all the rest are under lockdown. Yours truly has some leeway. Being a Prince of Hell has its perks."

Sam looked intently at the demon. "Is that… is that what you need me for?"

"See, I knew there was a reason I'm rooting for you," Azazel replied merrily. "Yes, Sammy. You're a special child, did you know that? You are the one who can break the spell, the only one in your generation."

"Why me?" Sam almost whispered.

The demon chuckled. "Ah, the mysterious ways of the Force. But seriously, you're more than just a fancy lock pick. So much more. You can have anything, do anything. You just need to let me guide you, and you will have the entire Host of Hell to command as you please. And then nothing will be able to stop you. You'll be the ruler, the sultan, the Boy King."

Another roll of thunder roared and a bolt of lightning struck down. Azazel's smile was a smirk now.

"So how about it, Sam?"

"No," he realized his fists had clenched so hard, his nails were digging into the flesh of his palms. Azazel's grin never faltered.

"Oh, but you should at least take some time to consider it."

"I said no."

"Why, Sam, I'm surprised at you," Azazel didn't seem bothered by Sam's tone. "Do you realize how much good you can achieve with that kind of power? How many people's lives you can save? What kind of great deeds you can accomplish with Hell following your lead?"

"Like you care about saving people's lives," Sam scoffed.

The demon theatrically held his hand to his chest. "Of course I care! You need to understand; darkness and light define each other. Good and evil, night and day, summer and winter, yin and yang. It's all about balance, and when the scale is tipped, it's not only one side that suffers the consequences." Azazel moved another step closer. "Why do you think this destiny, this calling, is yours, and not some demon's? Huh? Because a demon could never reach a balance. But you can."

Sam had to pause for a minute. He didn't really know what he expected when he allowed Azazel to reach him; he thought maybe the demon would like to feast on his soul, or whatever demons did. He never expected to be offered to govern over Hell. And would that be such a bad thing, really? Azazel had a point – that much power in the hands of a demon would be disastrous; but in Sam's hands…

Demons lie

Sam pulled himself out of his own thoughts. Azazel was looking at him steadily, his lips still curled with a smile that showed his square teeth. He was keeping up the pretense of friendly nonchalance for now, but what would happen next, when he found out Sam wasn't going to take him up on his offer?

Sam suddenly became aware that he had no plan; he was so set on drawing Azazel into a trap that he completely neglected to actually make one. He would need to buy himself some time while he tried to figure out what to do next.

"The demon who came to talk to me at Lund, he said you needed Dean, too."

Azazel's eyebrows rose slightly. "If you're as powerful as we think you are, we wouldn't need him at all. You can take the collar off him and send him on his merry way. Or you can keep him. He's housebroken, isn't he?"

"And if I'm not? As powerful, I mean."

"Then it's lucky we've arranged for you to have that," the demon pointed at Sam's right hand, and Sam lifted it up; the bracelet's silver color looked dim in the ashen light.

"You've arranged...? I don't understand."

Azazel uttered a short chuckle. "Well, maybe 'arranged' is overstating it, but yes, we nudged the patterns a little, made sure they went in the right direction. Ever since the collar was created, we've been monitoring the hunting community, watching whoever bore it over the years, and also whoever had a chance to bear it. We suspected you might need the collar when the time came, but your dad would have never let one of those old, nasty hunters near you. A boy is a whole other matter."

"You…" Sam couldn't find his voice for a minute. "You got Dean collared?" The demon's expression was almost smug.

"I'd like to take credit for that, but as I said, all we did was nudge. Some nightmares to drive the boy's father a bit more violent, a sprinkle of hallucinations, a pinch of dark ideas whispered into his ear and voilà – one deranged lunatic running amuck. Getting rid of the psychic before the trial was a breeze, and those conceited, know-it-all hunters did the rest. Oh, don't give me that look, Sammy," Azazel cooed. "Old man Kubrick would have probably gone batshit crazy sooner or later. The way it turned out, the world was efficiently rid of him, you earned yourself a lovely little pet, and the collar ended up right where we wanted it. I call it a win win situation."

"You got Adam killed," rage was burning inside Sam's chest like acid. "You let Dean go through two years of torture."

Azazel made a tsking sound and shook his head slightly. "Now, Sam. Don't tell me Dad never taught you about collateral damage? The most important thing was making sure the collar would be available to you if and when you needed it. Here, allow me."

The demon snapped his fingers and all of a sudden Dean was there.

The older boy appeared dazed for a second as his eyes scanned his surroundings, and then seemed to take in the presence of both Sam and Azazel.

"Sam!" He took a step forward, and Azazel raised his hand. A thin line engraved itself in the dirt before Dean's feet, and quickly ran to carve a circle around him, about six feet in diameter.

Dean glanced at it, took a step forward and let out a surprised breath as he bumped into an invisible wall. He reached out to feel it and Sam was reminded of the age-old mime act of pretending to touch glass, except there was nothing funny about it; much less when Dean tried to ram his shoulder into the barrier with his face scrunching in pain.

"It's impenetrable, you're only going to wear yourself out," the demon said with mock kindness. "Why don't you just wait there patiently while us grown-ups are talking? There's a good boy."

"Fuck you," Dean banged both his fists on the barrier and Azazel's eyes flashed yellow.

"I said wait patiently." Dean flinched back with a gasp as the invisible divider shimmered and gave a dry crackle. He eyed it, and Sam had the feeling he was about to throw himself at it once more.

"Dean, don't – just back away from it," he said. For a moment he feared Dean wasn't hearing him, but then the older boy retreated almost to the middle of the circle.

"That's better," Azazel's smile returned; his anger was scary, but this grin was petrifying. He turned to Sam. "Can you feel it, Sam? The collar?"

Sam realized that he did feel something, some sort of humming; it was buzzing through his teeth, raising the fine hair on the nape of his neck as if the air was filled with electricity. His wrist was tingling under the bracelet. "Yeah, I… but this is just a dream, isn't it?"

Azazel shook his head. "Not exactly. It's a dimension tucked sideways between realities, and some artifacts, like the collar, can project into it. Dreams are one way to reach it. When you become King of Hell, you'll have the power to walk between planes like it was nothing more than crossing the street. And there are so many of those places to discover. You would like that, Sam, wouldn't you?"

Sam's head was almost spinning with possibilities, with visions of him sailing through dimensions in the blink of an eye. He was brought back to the present as Dean snorted.

"You really think that's what you're gonna buy him with?"

Azazel turned to him. "I don't need to buy Sam; he is coming to the inevitable conclusion that embracing his destiny to re-open Hell and rule over it is the right thing to do."

"Yeah, like hell. Pardon the pun."

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, especially since you're going to be helping him in a minute."

"We might not be in Sam's dream, pal, but you sure are dreaming. Because there's no fuckin' way-"

Sam looked at Dean, startled at the way his speech was cut short. The older boy was staring at Azazel, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Sam followed his gaze and saw there was someone else standing by the demon's side – a small, blue-eyed child. Sam looked back at Dean, whose lips were trembling.

"Adam?" Dean whispered. The little boy took a tiny step forward.

"Dee?" His voice was soft and uncertain.

"Adam," Dean moved to the barrier, and Sam opened his mouth to warn him, but Dean had already touched the wall; whatever effect it had before was gone now, though, and it didn't react when Dean leaned his hands against it. "Adam, it's me, kiddo, hey, it's me."

"Dee," the boy's sweet little face lit up momentarily with a smile, and then it waned. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, kiddo," Dean sank down to his knees, hands sliding along the invisible wall. "I miss you so, so much." Tears started running down his cheeks. He didn't seem to notice.

"You comin' tah get me, Dee?" Adam's big eyes were hopeful.

"Get you from where? Where are you?"

"Where do you think?" Azazel cupped the back of Adam's blond head easily with one hand, and Sam was suddenly outraged by this unholy touch. "He's in Hell."

Dean stared up at him. "No."

The demon smiled, almost gently. "I'm here. Adam's here. Where do you think we came from? The French Riviera?"

"It can't… it can't be. Adam was just a little kid. He was without sin," but there was uncertainty in Dean's voice. Azazel shrugged.

"Well, if you think it can't be, I might as well send him back," he raised his hand, about to snap his fingers, and Dean practically slammed himself against the wall.

"No! Leave him alone!"

The demon lowered his hand, eyes sparkling. "If Sam opens the gate, Dean, your brother will be released."

Sam held his breath. Dean stared at Azazel and Adam for a long moment, and then, slowly, turned his head toward Sam.

"Sam," he whispered.

"No, Dean," Sam could feel his chest tightening at the raw pain and hope he saw in Dean's face.

"Please, Sam."

"No. I can't do it."

"I'm begging you," Dean had shifted on his knees to fully face Sam. "Please, I'll do anything. Keep me collared, I don't care. Just release Adam. He doesn't belong there, Sam, please. Please."

"Dean, listen to yourself, you want me to open-"

"Yes!" Dean leaped to his feet and pounded on the barrier. "Yes, I want you to fuckin' open Hell! I want you to let my little brother out, you spoiled, privileged sonovabitch! He hardly had anything good in his life, he hardly had a life at all, he doesn't deserve to rot in there! And you'll fuckin' let him out! Let him the fuck out now!"

Sam was shocked at the intensity of Dean's reaction; the older boy had been nothing but gentle with him, and now he was staring at Sam with eyes wild with rage and desperation. Sam didn't doubt for a second that if there wasn't a magic wall between them, Dean would have snapped his neck as easily as he would a twig.

Sam took a breath. He needed to stay focused, needed to get Dean focused. "Dean, he's lying to you. He's just trying to unnerve you. Us. "

"Well, I'm fucking unnerved!" Dean barked at him. He took a few steps back, then slammed into the wall. The line in the dirt at his feet wasn't disturbed at the least.

"It's Hell we're talking about," Sam said. "All those demons that would be released, all the innocent people that would get hurt because of it. Don't you care?"

"No, I don't fuckin' care!" Dean's fists pummeled the barrier. "Adam was just as innocent! Quit stalling already, Sam!"

Sam glanced over at Azazel, who was eyeing them with interest, his hand still cupping the back of Adam's head. The little boy was standing almost motionless by his side. Sam remembered how he had imagined Adam after Bobby had told him Dean had killed his baby brother. Rosy cheeks and innocent smiles.

He was without sin

"That's not Adam," Sam said slowly. "Is it? Adam isn't in Hell. He never was."

Dean ceased his fight against the invisible wall. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Think about it, Dean. Adam wasn't even five years old. What kind of a sin could he have committed? Why would he possibly end up in Hell?"

Dean stared at Sam, and then glanced over at Azazel and Adam.

"I don't know who or what he is," Sam continued. "But that's not your brother. Azazel's just messing with your head. That's not Adam." He watched Azazel.

The demon smirked. "Clever boy," he said.

Adam's – no, not Adam, the thing's – face twisted into a scowl as he sneered at Dean. "Your dad was right, you know," the childish voice was still there, but the speech was now adult-like, and a chill ran down Sam's spine. "You've always been too hotheaded and way too goddamned stupid."

Dean gaped at him. "Adam," he whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"It's not Adam," Sam said softly.

The little boy smiled, a horrible, twisted smile. "Oh, he'll get it eventually. Give him a year or two."

Dean leaned unsteadily against the barrier, face pale, chest heaving with gasped breaths. Sam turned his eyes at Azazel. "That's enough. Send it away."

The demon tilted his head, his grin steady. "But of course." He snapped his fingers, and flames erupted around Adam's feet, climbed up, and in a flash, the child was gone. Dean started, hands pushing against the wall.

"Back to you, then, Sam," Azazel was all business. "The sole ruler of Hell. The savior of mankind. The traveler of worlds. The most competent being the universe had ever known. That's not just a brochure, that could be you in about five seconds from now. As soon as you give the word, all of this potential, those possibilities, this power – it's all yours."

Sam looked at him, at the expectant glint in his yellow eyes. He could have whatever he wanted. He could make everybody happy. He could make poverty gone, make wars extinct, make hunger and hate and evil a memory so vague, it would be practically lost.

He could have Mom back.

He took a breath.

"No."

Azazel shook his head. "You disappoint me, Sam, you really do. I thought you were smarter than this, but you're clearly not. Oh, well. On to plan B."

He snapped his fingers.

Chapter Text

Dean stumbled forward as the line in the dirt that marked the barrier that trapped him was gone. He waved his hands before him, and they seemed to move freely. He straightened up and his confused gaze passed from Sam to Azazel.

Then he gasped, and his hands flew to his throat.

Sam felt the tingle on his wrist become uncomfortably hot. He glanced down to see the bracelet shining. Looking back at Dean, he could see the collar was shining as well. The humming he had sensed earlier became intense, as if the air was vibrating with it.

"What's happening? What are you doing?" Sam tried to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"See, since you're refusing to help me, Sam, I'll have to take matters into my own hands," the demon replied. His hand moved a little and Dean gasped again. The humming was now a swarm of angry wasps drilling into Sam's brain.

"Leave him alone," Sam took a step forward, but the demon gestured and Sam bumped into something. Looking down he realized there was a line in the dirt around him, just like the one that had encircled Dean before. He reached out tentatively and his hands met with a solid surface; it felt a little like steel and a little like glass and a little like… nothing he could name. He pounded on it just to try it out; he didn't really think he could make it budge, but he couldn't help himself.

Azazel seemed to lose interest in Sam altogether. He was looking at Dean now, yellow eyes focused and intent. Dean drew a breath, and then groaned and almost doubled over, hands still clutching at his neck.

"Dean!" Panic was making Sam's stomach twist. "What are you doing to him?!"

"I'm doing what you so selfishly wouldn't," Azazel turned his head toward Sam, and now there was no trace of the grin he had worn; his face was thunderous, like the clouds charging overhead. "All you had to do was say yes, and you could have had it all. You could have breezed through this, and your pretty lap dog wouldn't have had to channel magic a hundred times stronger than he can handle. So you either step up to fulfill your destiny, Sam, or you shut the fuck up."

All of a sudden Sam felt pressure clamp down around him, as if the air in the invisible cylinder that entrapped him had all been replaced with vacuum. The humming stopped abruptly. He saw from the corner of his eye a bolt of lightning striking the ground, but he could hear nothing. He couldn't even hear his own breath, his own heartbeat. He opened his mouth and screamed; there wasn't even the faintest sound.

Azazel was watching him, and a hint of a smirk curled the corner of his mouth. Then he turned toward Dean again and reached his hand out.

Dean's head jerked back, mouth opening in what Sam assumed must have been a cry of pain. The collar was shining brighter, and Sam could feel the bracelet heating up on his wrist. Dean straightened again and glowered at the demon; Sam couldn't hear what he was saying, but based on his sneering expression, it probably included the sort of language Dad didn't approve of but kept using when he though Sam wasn't listening.

Azazel said something and moved his outstretched hand. Dean dropped to his knees, his face a mask of agony, his hands clawing at the collar. It was shining so brightly now, it was almost too dazzling to look at.

The feeling of heat on Sam's wrist became scorching, and he grabbed at the bracelet with his left hand and tried to tear it off. He remembered Dad had told him a sponsor could do that, but apparently the rules didn't apply here; he might as well have been trying to rip a steel cable with his bare hands.

Sam looked at Dean again; the older boy was writhing inside the glow of the collar. Sam noticed the broken earth beneath him starting to glow as well, the silvery shine seeping into the cracks like streams of mercury. The terror surging through Sam was so chilling, for a moment he could barely feel the burn of the bracelet.

He looked down at his wrist and the shining bracelet. Then he looked at Dean and Azazel again.

it's lucky we've arranged for you to have that

Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on the bracelet, trying to feel every ounce of its fire. He imagined the humming he heard before as the collar came into this dimension, tried to reach out and sense it again.

There was nothing, just the pressure of vacuum on his eardrums and the scorching of the bracelet on his skin. Sam screwed his eyes closed tighter, took deep, steady breaths and cleared his mind. It was difficult not to think about how Dean was squirming in pain just a few yards away from him, but Azazel might have involuntarily done Sam good by depriving him of sound; with his eyes closed he could try and forget what the older boy

his brother, Dean was his brother

was going through, what Sam needed to stop.

He inhaled – so weird without hearing that faint rustle of air drawn into his nostrils – then exhaled, and then again. And then again. He thought about what the humming of the collar felt like before, about the electric buzzing in his teeth, through his bones, the hairs on his body standing on end.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing. Just the air going into his lungs and out again. And then he felt it.

It was just a hint at first, a slight tingling at the tips of his fingers, as if his hands were regaining sensation after going numb. Sam concentrated on that, carefully, not wanting the feeling to slip away. As gently as he could, he urged it to strengthen, to spread to his hands and then his arms. Soon the vibrations were covering his skin, prickling into his nerves and sending little lightnings strikes through the darkness behind his closed lids.

He could feel the humming again. It was stronger now, washing around him, through him. The bracelet was white fire on his wrist, but it didn't hurt, not anymore.

Sam opened his eyes.

Dean and Azazel were still in the same position he had seen them last; Dean was curling into himself, barely staying on his knees without tipping over. Azazel was holding both arms out, fingers splayed like an ostentatious magician.

Sam didn't have to glance down to see the line in the dirt around him. He could see the wall now, like a cylinder of cellophane wrap. It didn't seem like much; it actually seemed like the vibrations rushing through him could just blow it away.

Sam raised his hand – the sensation was like moving it through streams of electrified air, but those streams weren't resisting him in the least; they were sliding around his hand and cradling his arm. Sam tapped the wall. It was as if a sheet of fine sugar glass met hot water; the wall melted away and suddenly Sam was attacked by the sounds he was deprived of.

The air was bustling with loud crackling sounds, woven with the humming that was now so loud, it was almost a shriek. It was overwhelming, almost making Sam cover his ears with his hands, even though he knew, somehow, that it wasn't pure soundwaves, but something that echoed deep inside his skull as well as in his auditory canals.

Azazel turned his head to look at Sam as the wall had disappeared, his face irritated. "Sam, I told you that if you're not pitching in, then you're staying out," he said. He started to move one of his hands toward Sam.

Sam could feel the air streams Azazel was manipulating. Even before the demon's hand had leveled in Sam's direction, the pattern was clear, and furthermore – somehow Sam knew how to intercept it.

He moved his own hand, sending the currents crashing at Azazel. The demon stumbled back a step, his expression going from annoyed to wondering. He turned toward Sam, both hands in the air, the buzzing streams swirling around him.

Azazel twirled his fingers, shimmering tendrils knotting themselves at his motion, and then he pointed at Sam, and the currents rushed at him, almost too fast for him to respond; he barely gathered the air around him, holding it to create a makeshift shield. Azazel's attack broke over it like a wave over a rock, but Sam felt the raw force of it. If he allowed for Azazel to hit at him a few more times, he wouldn't be able to block it.

Azazel didn't attack again, though. "I knew you were smart," he said. "You learned some of the ropes on your own, and I'm impressed. But make no mistake, you're a very long way from what you could become. Doing what you did is still just child's play. Don't assume, even for a minute, that you're any match for me. So I suggest you stay back, because I have no problem landing you in a world of hurt."

With that the demon turned back to Dean, as if having no doubt his warning was taken seriously. Dean had recuperated a little, and even managed to raise his head and look up. But as Azazel gestured at him, he cringed with a stifled cry.

"Let him go," Sam's fists were clenching. Azazel didn't even spare him a glance.

"Quiet, Sam, I'm working."

"I said, let him go," Sam swooped his arms around, making the vibrating forces gather, and threw them at Azazel. The demon turned his head and moved his arm, but he was too late to deflect the wave that hit him. He was pushed back a few steps, and when he balanced on his feet, his expression turned from surprised to outright enraged.

"This is how you want to have it, little boy?" Azazel turned to fully face Sam and raised his arms. "I'm done playing with you. That's the last time you get in my way."

Before Sam could respond, something hit him; it was like opening a giant oven with the heat billowing out. It was solid and somehow airy at the same time, and Sam was punched out of breath. His eyes burned, his face felt like it was splashed with acid. He stumbled back, almost fell over, but managed to stay on his shaky feet.

"Sam!" It was Dean's voice, but it sounded miles away, beyond a wall of sizzling fire. Then Dean cried out and Azazel growled, "You keep the hell out of this."

Sam forced himself to open his eyes. Azazel was still holding his hands up, and Sam could see the energy gathering around him. He tried to move his own hands, to make the streams around him form a shield, but his body was a single mass of pain, and he couldn't make it move.

It's a dimension tucked sideways between realities. Dreams are one way to reach it.

It wasn't real. Any of this. Or rather, it was very real, but it wasn't physical. It wasn't really his body he was moving. It wasn't really pain he was sensing.

He didn't need his body for this.

Sam let his body – what he thought of as his body – go very still. He tried to feel the currents around him without moving, to let his mind expand out of the jail of his skull, the prison of his perception. As he did, everything seemed to slow down. The buzzing wasn't that of angry wasps anymore; now it was golden honeybees, and they were rubbing against him like friendly dogs, practically bouncing for him to give an order.

Sam looked straight at Azazel.

Azazel moved his hand, but it was like looking at a slow-motion movie. Sam's bees were quick as lightning as they stormed at the demon in sparkling streams. Within a minute, Azazel was engulfed in that shimmering cloud and somehow Sam was feeling it, he was feeling as though his fingers were wrapping around the demon.

Azazel writhed and uttered a cry – it was pained, but also so furious Sam shivered involuntarily. Against the hold of his mind he could sense Azazel pushing, trying to break free, and clenched the fist of power he was holding the demon in.

He could also feel Dean; the older boy was a center of pulsing energy, and even though Sam had Azazel trapped, the demon was still holding Dean by some kind of a leash. Sam could now trace the spell's currents, the way Azazel was directing them through Dean. Even now, the flow was there – thinner, maybe, but not by much.

And Sam could feel Dean's pain, too, could feel the way the magic flowing through him was like molten lava. He thought he might know how to unravel the bond Azazel had created, but to do that, he had to shift his concentration, just a little bit-

The flash of bright, pure pain that struck him was overwhelming. Sam was flung back, only realizing he had fallen down when his back hit the hard ground and the air was knocked out of his lungs. A second blow followed, and Sam's tidy, flowing streams were shattered into a million glimmering shards of shrapnel.

"I told you no more playing around," Azazel's voice was scorching. Sam screamed as another wave of liquid fire poured over him. "Time to get you out of the way, permanently."

There was a moment of silence as Sam felt the demon sucking the energy around him, like an archer pulling back the bowstring. He tried to move, to reach out and grab at the streams of power, but he could hardly think, could hardly breath.

This was going to be it. All that was left was to wait for the final blow.

It never came.

Instead, he felt the streams change, break free from Azazel's grasp, and Sam grabbed on to them and used them to pull himself up to a sitting position.

Azazel was facing Dean now, and the older boy had straightened up as much as he could on his knees. Sam saw the flow of magic was still there, but now it had changed; it looked like Dean was the one reining Azazel in.

"You are not… gonna hurt… my brother," Dean hissed between clenched teeth. "Not again, not ever, you fucking sonovabitch."

Azazel didn't answer. In fact, he seemed like he was gasping for air. Sam didn't know how Dean managed to reverse the flood of magic and couldn't care less. He got to his feet and willed the swarm of bees to gather. They did, but too slowly, and in the meantime, Azazel was gradually regaining control over the collar's power.

"I've had it up to here with your meddling ass," he panted. "You think I need you conscious for this? Sure, your pain was a nice addition, but I can do without the entertainment."

He was pushing Dean back as he spoke, and Sam knew that the minute the magic's flow was righted, Dean would be done for.

He would not let that happen.

Sam willed the streams harder, balled them up like a giant snowball and thrust them at Azazel as hard as he could, feeling the powers wrapping up around him again, trapping him in an invisible fist.

Azazel screamed, as much in frustration as in pain. Sam clenched his fists, as if this could somehow help him keep the magical fist tight. It took an enormous amount of willpower, and even though Sam was putting everything he had into it, Azazel was fighting back, stabbing and punching through the currents, and Sam didn't know how long he could keep this up.

"Sam!" He couldn't even glance over at Dean. He felt like every second of taking his attention off Azazel might be disastrous. "Sam, use the collar!"

At first, Sam didn't understand, and then he felt a nudge. And then another one. Dean was once again trying to reverse the collar's spell toward Azazel, to push it at Sam.

Sam grabbed on to it, pulled it, wove it into his streams of power. A bolt of lightning struck so close, it blinded Sam for a second, and the following thunder nearly deafened his ears.

Azazel screamed.

There wasn't any frustration in that scream, just agony. Sam found it easier now to tighten the fist around the demon, almost effortless with the added flow of the collar's magic. He clenched the fist a little, and Azazel screamed again.

"I was wrong! You are worthy!" He shouted through the sizzling, crackling streams. "You will have it all, Sam, anything you want! Hell, Earth, even Heaven! You're the chosen one, the Boy King! Just let me go and I shall give you anything you ever wished for! Anything!"

Sam halted and looked at the demon twisting in his hold. He looked at Dean, and then back at Azazel. He smiled.

"I want your ass dead, you son of a bitch."

He closed his fist

Chapter Text

"Sam! Sammy! Oh God… Sam!"

Sam felt like he was floating in some deep, dark place. It wasn't scary in the least; he was warm and cradled as if inside a womb.

"Sammy! Why isn't he waking up? Sam!"

Voices were filtering through the void. He thought he might have known them, or was at least supposed to. It didn't matter, anyway. All he wanted was to keep on drifting in that cozy, comfortable darkness.

"Sam?..."

He frowned. This voice was different. It came louder than the others, like it was able to penetrate the layers that encased him.

"Sam, can you hear me? Wake up, come back, Sam."

He knew whose voice it was. He knew… he forgot.

"Sam, please, wake up."

Dean.

Sam opened his eyes.

"Oh, thank God," Dad was bending over him, relief spreading over his features. He cupped Sam's face with his hands. "Thank God. Sam, are you with me?"

Sam opened his mouth and tried to talk; it felt like it was chock full of sand. He nodded instead. Dad sat on the bed, slid his arms around Sam's body and lifted him enough so he could hug him. Sam tried to hug him back, but his arms felt too heavy. Dad didn't seem to mind, though; he was holding Sam as if he was afraid to let go even for a second.

"Jesus, I thought you were gone, Sammy. I thought you were gone for good." Sam had hardly ever heard his father's voice so shaky and frightened, except maybe back at the hospital, during those episodes when his illness was most severe. Dad had looked scared then, as scared as he sounded now. But when he finally pulled back, he was smiling weakly.

Sam smiled back and then glanced over to see who else was with them.

Which was everybody; he saw Bobby, Missouri, Pastor Jim – all hovering around his bed, their faces only recently drained of worry. Sam passed his gaze from one to another. He wanted to make sure they were alright, of course he did; damaging the ward might have put everybody in the house in danger. But he also wanted to see the only other person who mattered right now.

It was Missouri who understood. She moved back, pulling Bobby with her, and made way for Dean.

He was standing right behind the adults, face pale, green eyes haunted. He looked as if he didn't know if he should step forward, but Sam held out his hand – he had managed to move it at last – and Dean came to kneel by the bed and grabbed Sam's hand. His touch was firm and warm and real, and Sam felt instantly grounded.

"We did it, didn't we?" He said quietly.

"You did it," Dean replied. "It was… it was awesome, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "We did it. Both of us."

"I didn't do anything. I was just trying to keep from dying long enough for you to gank the sonovabitch."

"I couldn't have done it without you," he squeezed Dean's hand as the older boy seemed about to protest. "I couldn't. We did it together, Dean."

Dean looked at him for a long moment, and then his lips curled into a smile. It was tentative and didn't erase the lines of worry and pain off his face, but it illuminated his eyes in a way that made Sam's heart feel like it was illuminated too.

"We kicked Azazel's yellow-eyed ass, didn't we, Sammy?"

Sam grinned. He reached his other hand and Dean met it with his warm one. "We definitely did."

Chapter Text

Dean's fingers were tapping his knee in a jerky, irregular rhythm. Sam glanced at him, wondering – again – if he should say something, and decided – again – to keep quiet. It wasn't like anything he could say would calm Dean down. It wasn't like Sam himself was any less nervous.

They were sitting outside the room in which the court martial had taken place. After the dust from their battle against Azazel had settled, Dad had spread the message along the grapevine demanding a retrial for Dean. Bobby had gone with Pastor Jim to Maine to meet with Harper, the elder who had served as the presiding judge on Dean's trial, and to arrange the retrial. A few days later, Sam, Dad and Dean set out to Swanville, with Missouri following in her car.

Sam had never seen so many hunters in one place. Dean said a lot of people came for his first trial, although at the time they all seemed like a blur to him. This time there were even more.

Not all of them served at the court martial; Harper and the other two old hunters who were the panel of judges on the first trial would be judging again, but this time there were twenty-three hunters who had asked to serve as observers, and all the others would only watch from the benches.  

Dad had explained that observers were a little like a jury, and they could question the witnesses and the defendant during the trial, and freely express their opinion concerning the verdict. Unlike a jury, there was no limit to their number; the entire hunting community could be involved in a court martial if they so wished. It was near impossible, for obvious reasons, but Sam could see how each one of the community would want to judge someone who had hurt one of their own.

Sam glanced over at Dean again when he heard a faint sound coming from the older boy. He listened for a minute. "You're humming Metallica?"

"It calms me down," Sam felt a smile tugging at his lips and did his best to school his face so it wouldn't surface. He put his hand on Dean's.

"It's gonna be okay," he said. Dean looked at him, dropped his eyes and nodded. Sam nodded back and squeezed Dean's hand.

They both looked up when the door to the courtroom opened. There was a hunter standing outside to make sure Dean wasn't trying to eavesdrop – like it made any difference, Sam thought – and he now turned to the hunter who opened the door from the inside. Then both of them moved out of the way and looked at Dean.

Dean stared at them and at the open door but didn't seem like he was about to get up. Sam waited a moment, then gave Dean's hand another squeeze. "Dean?"

"Yeah. Okay," Dean took a breath, then another one, and stood up.

Sam followed Dean as he walked into the courtroom. It was a large dining hall, made bigger by demolishing some walls between it and neighboring rooms in the old lake-side mansion from which Harper managed the affairs of the surrounding hunter community. As big as it was, it was now so packed full of hunters, that a row of them was standing along the walls behind the seated crowd.

Even though he wasn't the center of attention, Sam found it unnerving to be amongst such a large crowd of people, each fully capable of ending him five different ways in under thirty seconds. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like for Dean two years ago when he was brought here with all those trained killing machines glaring at him. Maybe it was for the best that Dean had been too shocked by the death of his little brother to really take it in.

They weren't glaring when Dean, Dad and Sam had came into this hall an hour ago, at the opening of the retrial. Some of them had looked intrigued; others expectant. There were a few that had appeared entertained, as if they had come to watch some show, and not a court martial. But most of them had possessed the decency to actually look a little guilty, and Sam couldn't help feeling a bit of malicious joy at that. They were the ones who hadn't helped Dean and Adam escape from their father's clutches, who had left Adam to die alone, who had sentenced Dean to slavery and pain he never deserved.

The first part of the retrial was run efficiently. There was really very little doubt left after Missouri had recounted what she had seen in Dean's memories. Nonetheless, the witness from the first trial, Creedy, was called to give his testimony again – poor and unhelpful as it was, since he had come into the RV well after the killings were done.

Dad and Bobby managed to find some hunters who could testify to Kubrick's treatment of Dean; he had had no friends and had rarely let anybody hunt with him for long, but there was one hunter who once saw Kubrick slapping Dean, another who had heard him mention how young boys needed harsh corrections, a third who had seen, briefly, fresh marks on Dean's back as his shirt rode up in the midst of a hunt.

Pastor Jim questioned clergymen Kubrick had encountered close to the time of the killings. Two of them belonged to the hunting community, and came to testify about his deteriorating mental health and growing obsession with the uprising of the Antichrist.

And then Dean had been called forth.

"I won't ask you to tell us again about everything that you went through with your father," Harper had said, and under the formal tone, Sam could hear the compassion. "We've heard the psychic and the other witnesses. I'll only ask you to answer the same questions you were asked on the first trial. Two years ago, did you or did you not kill your father?"

Dean had stood there, shoulders back, face set. "I did, sir, but as self-defense, he was about to attack me with a knife."

Harper nodded. "And did you kill your little brother?"

Sam had watched Dean intently as his mouth twitched

he believed it was his fault. That Adam died because of him. That it was as if he had killed the little boy himself

and prayed Dean would give the right answer this time around.

The huge hall was completely silent. Dean took a breath, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, painful. "I didn't kill Adam, sir. He was dead when I came into the RV. My father was standing over his body, and as I approached he turned to me and said, "So perish all Thine enemies, O Lord"."

None of the dozens of hunters in the courtroom had made so much as a sound. At last Harper coughed and asked Dean to wait outside for the verdict. The hall was as silent as a grave when Dean and Sam crossed it to exit through the vast doors.

It was still quiet now, when the two boys walked along the rows of hunters toward the judges. Sam didn't return to his seat but stood by Dean's side. He saw a movement from the corner of his eye, and then Dad was by Dean's other side.

Harper's brow rose somewhat, but he ignored the Winchesters' stance as he addressed Dean. "Dean Kubrick, this court exonerates you of the murder of your brother Adam. As for the killing of your father, we have determined it was a case of self-defense, and you are not to be held liable for his death. The collar will be removed immediately."

Dean let out a little breath, almost unnoticeable, but Sam felt him starting to shake and held his arm. He saw Dad shift a little and knew he was supporting Dean on his side.

"Don't think it took us that long to reach this conclusion, lad," Harper's voice was kinder, less formal as he continued. "The evidence was clear and indisputable. But we debated until now what would be the rightful compensation you should receive for the false verdict and the two years of being collared and condemned as a murderer among us. We have agreed that for the next two years, each and every one of the judges and observers from your first trial will be in your debt. Any favor you wish to call in will be granted to you, be it money, vehicles, weapons, even a house if you'd want one."

"I don't… I don't need…" Dean started, but Harper held up his hand.

"Let us do this for you. It's the least you deserve for what we put you through," he stood up and the other two judges followed suit. "This case is closed. The observers and crowd are dismissed." He walked over to Dean and nodded at him. "Come with me."

Dean seemed half-dazed as he followed Harper and the other two judges. Dad walked behind him. Sam pushed forward so he could walk by Dean's side.

They went into Harper's study – five times bigger than Bobby's with ten times more books on the shelves, the tables, the chairs and even the floor – and Harper closed the door behind them. Then he walked over to his huge desk and retrieved a wooden box with hieroglyphics carved into it.

"We'll get the bracelets off first," he said. Sam felt Dad's hand on his shoulder and advanced toward the desk. "Now, the incantation-"

"No need," Sam grabbed the bracelet, gave Dean a quick smile and tore the cord off his wrist.

It felt like nothing, like he was handling no more than a paper ribbon. But at the same time, it was as if he was casting away a burden weighing a hundred tons.

Dad looked at him, and the corners of his mouth curled. He reached for his bracelet and unceremoniously ripped it off his wrist and held it out to Harper. "Get rid of that damned thing."

Harper stared at him for a moment, and then almost shrugged. He opened the hinged lid of the box and held it out to them, and Sam and Dad dropped the bracelets onto the dark velvet lining inside. Harper turned to Dean.

"It's time, son. Let's set you free."

Dean moved slowly, as if in a dream. He reached Harper, who smiled at him and raised a hand to pat his face.

"This won't hurt like it did when we put it on, you have my word," his fingers trailed down to gently hold the collar and he waited to see Dean nod. Then he started to chant in the same weird language Dad had used when he put the bracelet on Sam's wrist, all those eons ago.

Harper continued to chant for a minute longer, and then there was a tiny crystal chime and the collar dropped away from Dean's neck and into Harper's palm.

It was over.

Chapter Text

The parking lot outside of Harper's mansion was still packed with hunters' cars and trucks, but they were already thinning, driving away one by one. Bobby, Pastor Jim and Missouri were going to stay here with some of the other sages and researchers to try and find out more about the spell that sealed up Hell, and to make sure it didn't break. The collar was never to be used again on another human.

Sam, Dad and Dean strolled toward the Impala in silence. Dean looked up into the deep, blue sky, a light breeze from the nearby lake playing in his spiky hair. It occurred to Sam that Dean was seeing the world as a free man for the first time in his life. Sam came to his side, with Dad a few steps behind.

"Do you know what you want to do now?" Sam asked. He could feel his stomach turn a little as he waited for Dean to respond. Dean could do anything he wanted, now that he had an unlimited number of favors to collect from the community. But Dean shook his head.

"Dunno."

"You can have them give you a car. You can go anywhere you want."

Dean shrugged. "I don't really have anywhere to go."

"You can stay with us," Sam didn't even know he was about to say it until it blurted out of his mouth. He wanted it, sure; but it wouldn't be fair to chain Dean to them just as those chains had been removed.

Dean looked at him, and Sam ordered himself not to interpret that look in his favor; Dean was free to go. He had no reason to want to be with the people who were his masters only an hour ago. Dean turned his eyes to Dad.

"Can I? Stay with you?" His voice was very small, uncertain, and Sam felt hope surge in his body like a wave. He looked up at Dad.

Dad's mouth twitched, just a little bit, before his face was smooth again. "Is this what you want, Dean?"

"Yes, sir. Please," a little less uncertain now.

Dad nodded. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like."

Sam wasn't ready for the intensity of Dean's smile; it was the sun at high noon in August, with not so much as a sliver of cloud to overcast it. Sam would have been helpless to stop himself from smiling back, and even Dad let a little grin slip before he turned to the car.

"I have something for you," he said as he retrieved a manila folder from the Impala. "The Harvelles know this whiz kid who can get into any database. I asked him to hack the records of the Department of Health in Lawrence, mess around in there a little. He made this for you, and a hunter who was headed this way picked up a certified copy from the city archives. It's a birth certificate, totally legit."

Dean pulled the thick paper out of the folder and looked at it. His hands started to shake. He raised his eyes to Dad, the sunny smile gone. "It's not right. It says… it's for Dean Winchester."

Dad moved a step closer, and Sam suddenly saw his eyes were shining with tears. "This is who you could have been, if not for the demon. This is who you should have been. And I want…" he stopped and took a big breath, rubbed a hand over his eyes and then looked at Dean again. "Sam calls me 'sir' at the appropriate times, and it's correct, it's respectful. But other times… other times he calls me 'Dad'. And I'd like for you to do the same. If you want." Sam never thought Dad could sound like he was pleading, but he did now.

Dean's hands were shaking so hard, his fingers were crumpling the folder and the birth certificate he was holding. His eyes were wide, his lips trembling. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but seemed unable to produce a single sound. He tried again, but no words came; instead he just nodded, lightly at first, and then forcefully as tears started streaming down his cheeks.

Dad spread his arms and Dean walked into them, hiding his face in Dad's shoulder as Dad wrapped him in a tight embrace. They stayed like that for a while, and Sam watched, chest so overflowing with warmth he thought he might burst.

At last Dad and Dean pulled away, and Dad lifted a hand to gently wipe the tears off Dean's face. Dean smiled, still a little shaky, and Dad smiled back, then turned and went over to the Impala's driver's seat.

Dean looked over at Sam and reached out to touch his face. "Got a few tears there, Sammy," he said.

Sam wiped at his cheeks. "You're one to talk." Dean chuckled and threw an arm around Sam's shoulders as they walked to the car. When they got to it, Dean climbed into the back seat with Sam.

"You should take shotgun," Sam said. Dean raised his eyebrows. "You know, 'cause you're older." Dean grinned at him and nudged him to make room on the bench.

"Maybe. Maybe I will, sometime. Right now I wanna sit here with my little brother."

He was about to put his arm around Sam's shoulders again, but Sam ducked and dove for his backpack. He sat up and held a package out to Dean; he had meant to get a nicer paper to wrap it, but everybody had been too busy to help him, and he ended up using a page from a newspaper. It was pretty lame, but at least it was a color page.

Dean eyed it curiously. "What's this?"

"It's for you," he shoved it at Dean to take and Dean did, unwrapping it carefully. "I thought you might have gotten used to having something hanging around your neck and maybe…  but if you don't like it, it's okay."

Dean held up the black string from which a golden amulet hung; it was shaped like the head of some horned pagan god. Bobby had assured Sam it was real special.

"Thank you, Sam. I… I love it," Dean was blinking, but he was also smiling as he slipped the string over his head and let the amulet rest above his heart.

Then he settled into the seat and raised an arm, and Sam snuggled under it as easily as if he had been doing it for years. Dad glanced at them through the rearview mirror, a light smile playing on his lips, then revved the engine and started to ease the Impala between the other parked cars.

Sam leaned his head on Dean's shoulder and watched the rays of sun ride the little waves of the lake. Azazel was defeated. Bobby, Missouri and Pastor Jim were safe. Dad was safe.

His big brother was safe.

He could feel Dean's arm around him, strong and warm and real. The Impala purred and rocked them gently as Dad steered her with practiced ease. Sam closed his eyes. He didn't know where they were going, but it didn't matter.

They were already home.