Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean always had a strange relationship with darkness. Darkness was where the monsters hid, something to be feared. Darkness was where creeps lurked, murderers struck, and violence thrived. But then again, Darkness could also be a place of peace, beauty, and freedom. It was both a refuge for the lonely soul and home to nightmares.

Facing God's sister for the last time, Dean couldn't help but reflect on the dichotomy of the creature, seemingly older than time, that he was about to hopefully kill to save the world... again. Well, at least what was left of it. The world had survived Darkness' revolt against her brother. It had survived God's abandonment, the Heaven and Hell feud, the Leviathans, and the Apocalypse. It had even survived the extensive line-up of "The Winchester Brothers Fuck Up™." For all the weaknesses God burdened humankind with, their resilience proved itself quite efficient against the hardships of existence.

Dean tried vainly to keep his mind organized, but thoughts kept popping in. Really, after dying so many times, you'd think one more death could at least be peaceful. Supposedly, this was the last one, and then, hopefully, Dean would be able to rest. No more pain, no more choices that could affect the entire world, no more feeling like his insides had been empty for too long. And maybe all that would be left for Dean to feel would be darkness. Peace, beauty, and freedom, at last.

While Dean's thoughts raced, the emptiness that had been stuck inside him since hell, that had kept growing since then, this awful pit of nothing that had gotten deeper and deeper when his arm was branded with the Mark of Cain, was slowly filling up with a strangely burning sensation. The bomb was ticking, Death was coming. For him. For God and for Darkness. And he was ready. Amara was looking at her brother's face, and Dean was ready... But suddenly, everything seemed to freeze.

A crackling sound, reminiscent of antique spinning wheels, fills the garden, accompanied by the smell of parchment. Slowly turning, Dean meets unseeing eyes that strangely seem to see right through him. The burning sensation that has taken over his insides is still present, but it has stopped growing.

“Well, this is anti-climactic,” says the blind man standing there. His voice is soft yet unfeeling. The man slowly walks until he stands between God and his sister, then turns toward Dean. The hunter remains still, his legs feeling heavy and unwilling to move. He tries to speak, but no words seem to form between his lips.

“Sorry, Dean. The bomb inside your body could easily destroy us all before I’m able to say my piece. Yes, God too. That little bomb of yours is as destructive to him as it is for Amara. The idiot just can't seem to accept his own vulnerabilities. That being said, I need to talk with you before you make a rash decision.”

Dean tries to glare, unsure of the effectiveness of his efforts, but the man, unbothered, continues his explanation. “You know, those idiots tend to forget they have an older brother. I mean, yeah, I was born eons before them, but still, it’s kind of hurtful to have a family reunion without me. But I guess you know the feeling. How is Sam, by the way?”

Dean doesn’t understand what’s happening. The man before him is tall, thin, and on the younger side. He wears a blue T-shirt and jeans, and his dark hair is just short enough not to hide his eyes, which wear an otherworldly white veil betraying his inability to see. He looks like a brooding young adult, and if it weren’t for the strange aura he’s radiating, Dean could almost believe it.

The man continues his one-sided discussion, pacing before Dean. “You know, for anything to exist, you need one small but nevertheless essential thing: Time. That’s me, by the way. Let’s say ‘time’ doesn’t exist on this plane; nothing could ever start, nor could it end. For creation and destruction to exist, you need Time, for they are both the start and the end - the Alpha and the Omega. For my siblings to be born, I needed to be there first.

And you know? Older brothers in nice, functioning families don’t really like to intervene in their little brothers’ and sisters’ lives, for they are the annoying brats we didn’t choose but were told we were supposed to get along with. But then again, neither of us comes from a nice, functioning family, right, Dean? I must say, I’m a bit jealous of your relationship with Sam. Chuck, as you know him, and I were never really close. Until now, it was working well; I was doing my job, and he was doing his. I thought I could leave those two alone, but guess what? When you’re all-powerful, fights can get a bit… destructive.

Amara got stuck in limbo, and Chuck was able to play God. Guess he didn’t expect what free will can do in someone as stubborn as you. I’m impressed, Dean, really I am. I didn’t think you’d get this far, but still, I was rooting for you. The thing is, I don’t really like “God’s Plan” for the years to come. I guess with all the time on my own to observe his creation, I grew quite fond of it. Plus, older brothers should stick together, don’t you think?”

Dean would have loved to tell this nutjob his thoughts on the dysfunctional and too powerful for their own good (and the good of the world while he’s at it) family. A family he currently would be quite happy to send their merry way in a flurry of soul explosion, ending his own suffering at the same time. But Time seemed quite happy to keep the one-way conversation going.

“I will let you in on a little secret, Dean. God was never on your side. God is on no one’s side but his own. And one day, sooner rather than later, you or your brother, or the little angel you’ve got on your shoulder will do something that dissatisfies him, and it will be the end of your story. Bye-bye humanity! Here comes your doom, the real one, and your writer has decided to put an end to his closing chapter. The thing is, when you won’t be there to distract him, Chuck will need a new plaything, and creation is a long and boring process. And Chuck gets nasty when he is bored. I don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

So, new plan. You and I are going to turn the tables. If you agree to my little proposition, you are going to go on a little trip through time. I’ll let you choose the date, and you will have one chance to make things right. Because, Dean, while your little soul bomb will definitely kill us, no one will be there to reap God from this world. For you killed Death. No reaper is strong enough for God’s Will to be thrown away in the Empty. Death is the only one of us that can keep us in line, for he is both my kin and our doom, the end of everything and anything, and our older sibling. If nothing else can be done, Death will have to reap God, for humankind will not survive his wrath.

Dean, the bomb is a few seconds away from exploding, so I’ll give you a few minutes still in stasis to think of your answer. Once the stasis is gone, you’ll have to tell me right there and then the date of your choosing. Then you’ll be on your own. Also, as you’ll serve as an anchoring point for our little trip, you need to choose a day that holds a significance to you, with enough emotional impact that it can serve as a marker in time, if you will. Ready?”

Dean, still caught in Time’s stasis, looks at the man before him. So what, after all those years fighting and losing and hurting and saving everyone but himself, his well-deserved rest, his final penance is thrown out the window because God is a petty little shit unable to survive a bit of contradiction? No way, no fucking way! Has he not given enough? Suffered enough? How much of him is still there to give when year after year he was ripped to shreds? So what if he can start again, those deaths, those hurts, they will travel with him! Never to be forgotten, always haunting his mind. And maybe he deserves death for everything he’s done, but to open himself to a brand-new world of suffering?

He is so tired. So, so tired of giving everything he has for a world that would sooner see him dead than happy, even if only for a few seconds. Hell, he was already done with all the bullshit God sent his way when Dad had the great idea to sell his soul for him. He never felt right after that, and considering how batshit crazy he was in his twenties, it clearly says something about his mental state over the last ten years. Then again, going through hell -literally- probably didn’t help in the safe and sane department.

If Dean is honest with himself -and considering he is about to either die or live through a whole new world of crazy, he should try- he has been borderline suicidal for years now. Death was supposed to be an escape from the crazy, not an open door to live through worse. But Death tends to not stick around the Winchester brothers, be it by choice or obligation. He really didn’t need a new choice thrown his way. And what a choice he has: either die in one last fiery and explosive death that will save the world once more, dooming it to God’s future tantrums, or get thrown back in time to start this whole fucked-up story again, risking fucking up the world even more.

Yeah, great choice he has to make. Why didn’t they send Sam to this party? His brother has the brains; he’d always been content with the looks! Even Castiel or Rowena would have been a better choice at this point! Tessa was right all those years ago -there comes a time when you should go, no matter what will happen on Earth after that. But Dean is trying to be honest, at least with himself. He’s never been good at letting go. His whole story revolves around his inability to let go of the people he loves, his anger, his free will, saving the world…

And God help him (yeah, no, let’s not involve the son of a bitch), he is considering it. Going back in time, trying again to save as many people as he can, even the world if he gets lucky. But it’s not like Time had the decency to give an instruction manual here. How is he supposed to even start with this? What date should he choose? His mother’s death? Or Sammy’s death? The ‘Jake’ one, not the ‘Jumping In The Pit’ one; he won’t let his brother even think about it this time.

Maybe he should choose his father’s death -definitely an impactful one. He can still hear the time of death echoing in his head. But no, he must be smart about this, think less with his emotions and at least a little bit with his brain. He needs something innocuous that won’t pop up on either Hell or Heaven’s radar. Something that could justify a change in character and give him enough time to think and maneuver his next move without alerting the people around him to the change he’s about to make. A date early enough that he can save the people he loves and the world while he’s at it.

This won’t be his first rodeo. He already knows some changes he can’t make. Too many people are invested in his family story. He won’t be able to intervene as early as he’d like because he knows what will happen if he tries. He loves his mother; he really does. But he can rationalize that she made her choice all those years ago when she made a deal—a deal he hates her for almost as much as he loves her.

He won’t be able to save her. He won’t come back for her. But he’ll make sure the rest of his family is safe. He knows when he has to come back.  

Chapter Text

“Hello, and welcome aboard our direct line to the past! You’ll be arriving at your date of choosing in a few minutes. Until then, I’ll provide you with some information to help you navigate your first days in the early thousands. Part of your mind will be kept hidden by a wall of my conception; it should withhold angels, demons, and God’s assaults. Keep in mind that it won’t prevent you from running your mouth, so be careful in any conversation you have in your new reality. This is soul travel - no luggage will be coming with you. I suggest preparing yourself quickly for those nasty things roaming the Earth that could prematurely put an end to our plan. Again, remember you won’t have any further contact with me starting now unless my past self takes an interest in you or your activities. The same terms apply to any person, creature, angel, or God you’ve met beyond the point in time you choose as your starting day. Good luck! Hope to never see you again and all that jazz. Time’s up -let’s get this party started!”

Dean wakes up with a gasp, air painfully rushing through his lungs, panic clawing at his throat. Let it be said, soul traveling is no better than flying. Trying to slow his racing heart and calm his breathing, Dean casts a wary glance around him, struggling to get his bearings. He doesn’t recognize the motel room he’s in; after a while, they all start to look the same. Plus, it’s been ages since he had to spend more than a few nights in those unsanitary rooms. He really needs to find the key to the bunker as early as possible -he’s grown quite fond of his memory foam mattress, thank you very much.

His duffel bag is tossed onto a chair at the foot of his bed, articles from newspapers and various photos pinned to the wall. If he arrived on the right day, the case they were working on was closed last night. It strangely feels like it was both yesterday and years ago. He could recite all the facts about the hunt they did, where they went, how much time it took, but it’s with a strangely detached perspective, as if he’s seeing it through someone else’s eyes. And in a way, that’s exactly what’s happening here. He remembers everything younger Dean has done over the past few days, but younger Dean is different from him -not as jagged by everything life has thrown his way. Still, his sore muscles and the nasty cut in his arm were quite the vivid memento of their last hunt. The only reason both his father and his brother had let him sleep were his injuries. Both had been strangely on his case for getting hurt last night and had wanted him to get some rest.

His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by yelling next door. Yep, he definitely arrived on the right day.

“Why would you apply to some shitty university? This family don’t have time for University Samuel!

“You mean you won’t give us time Dad, it’s all about YOUR quest, YOUR revenge!”

“It’s your revenge too Sam! Those sons of a bitch KILLED YOUR MOTHER!”

“It’s been almost twenty years! Mom would have wanted us to go to college!”

“WELL SHE’S NOT HERE!”

“OH YEAH? WELL HOW’S THAT MY FAULT? I SHOULD BE ABLE TO LIVE A NORMAL LIVE!”

“THAT WHAT YOU WANT, YOU WANNA LEAVE US? LEAVE THE HUNT? NEWSFLASH BOY, YOU CAN’T!”

“YEAH? WATCH ME!”

“WOULD YOU BOTH SHUT UP!” Exclaimed Dean.

God, he forgot how draining Sam and Dad argument were. And they were just getting started too. So yeah, welcome to the year 2002. Today, Dad found Sammy’s acceptance letter to Stanford, will say some nasty stuff, to which Sam will answer with worse till the conversation culminate to Dad yelling at Sam not to come back should he go through the door. Quite the emotional day in the top hundred of the shitty things that happened in Dean shitty life. Not the worst but still. Because of the argument currently occupying both his father and his brother, Dean will lose both. One to college, the other to resentment, guilt and mostly to the Hunt.

Him and Dad, they won’t make it more than a few day without Sam. Dean had been a mess back then, to shocked to intervene in his family fight, he had been so angry at himself for letting Sam go, for not telling him how proud he was of his accomplishment, that he can go but to call him once in a while, telling him to not forget to salt the windows, to keep an eye for danger. Years letter he had told his mother that he had to be both mother and father for his brother, taking care of his needs, his feelings, making sure he grow up fine, a man both he and his parents would be proud of. So yeah, Sam leaving without saying goodbye and then keeping a no contact policy… Dean had been a wreck.

And Dad didn’t have time for his emotional breakdown, nor the ability to make it better. So he had done what he does best, he yelled, ordered, and finally dropped his ass on a trail for some supposedly easy hunt while taking his rage and his truck to go after some possible werewolves in Nowhere City.

Years later, he had told his mother that he had to be both mother and father for his brother, taking care of his needs and feelings, making sure he grew up fine—a man both he and his parents would be proud of. So yeah, Sam leaving without saying goodbye and then keeping a no-contact policy… Dean had been a wreck. And Dad didn’t have time for his emotional breakdown, nor the ability to make it better. So he had done what he did best: yelled, ordered, and finally dropped his ass on a trail for some supposedly easy hunt while taking his rage and his truck to go after some possible werewolves in Nowhere City.

Yeah, Dean still had “thoughts” about the disappearing act those two had pulled on him. But God, does he love them. With their fights and their anger and their fights… But right now, he needs to play his cards right. No way is Sam going to college without some way to protect himself and his friends. Even worse, he can’t let Sam go thinking Dean doesn’t love him anymore or is somehow angry with him or whatever the disturbed mind of his little brother could have cooked up.

And Dean needs to stand up to his father. For all the love he has for the man, the anger, incomprehension, and rage he feels for him is equally present. Because from the day Mom had died, he’d been promoted to a soldier. He was old enough to accept that Dad's ways of coping with Mary’s death had been on a whole new level of fucked-up. And Sam was right in some ways, even if he tended to forget he had it better than his brother. Dad hadn’t been a father for a long time. Sometimes, echoes of the man surged from the hard-ass instructor, the drill sergeant. But those echoes had gotten fewer as the years passed.

While Dean had been able to buffer it up for Sam, he himself didn’t get the same opportunity. He still sometimes thinks of the letter he got for MIT and the GED he earned out of pure spite when neither his father nor his brother thought he’d be able to or want to. Which, thinking about it, they don’t know about for now. Because yeah, he’s in 2002 right now. And he just interrupted the mother of all arguments between Dad and Sam, effectively shutting both of them up. Quite the accomplishment, actually.

“Dad, Sam, you’re both the most aggravating, stubborn bastards I’ve ever met. And knowing the people we know, that’s impressive.”

“What the hell, Dean? Watch your tone, boy!”

“Don’t talk to him like that! We’re not your soldiers! I won’t blindly obey you, Dad!”

“Wow, guess I’m not Dad’s soldier only when you feel like it, huh, Sam? And Dad, considering I pretty much raised him, shouldn’t I be consulted on the whole Sammy’s future discussion?”

“The fuck you’re talking about right now, Dean? Sam wants to leave us, leave you! Don’t you get that?”

“Hey, it’s not like he’s joining a gang either… It’s just college. But Sam, what climbed up your ass and died? Did you really think getting all sneaky and leaving in the middle of the night like some kind of mistress was going to fly alright with us? I’m no poster child for the talking your feelings away approach, but don’t you think that would have been if not easy, at least a bit more respectful of us?  Anyway, here’s what’s going to happen. Dad go out and take a breath, and come back when you feel calmer. We don’t want a repeat of march 1999 don’t we ? Sam, sit down, let’s talk about your college thing. I won’t try and change your mind but if you’re going to this, you and I have are going to have to iron out some fine points”.

Incredulous, Sam watched is father close off when Dean mentioned March 99, before turning away and actually getting out as asked. No way. No fucking way Dad just obeyed Dean order. But then again, he himself was sitting in front of is brother, waiting for him to explain what the hell he expected of Sam.

Sam loved his brother. He did. But right now, he really didn’t want to have a conversation with him. Because even if Dean seemed ready to make some concession, he still was a hunter at heart. Living and breathing for the thrill of the hunt, the incarnation of their family motto “Saving people, Hunting things”. No way was Dean going to agree with letting him go to college. And that was without even considering the codependency Sam would never admit having with his older brother but will absolutely recognize in Dean every interaction with him. For God’s sake they still refused to take a separate room when they had the opportunity to do so! So yeah, Dean will let him go when Hell freezes over.

This confrontation really wasn’t going the way Sam hoped it to. Which was really frustrating when he spent nights planning the whole thing. For one, he had hoped to leave Dean out of this argument, more to preserve himself from guilt for abandoning his brother than anything else. And Dad was supposed to be… Well not really calmer, cause no way Dad would have stay calm hearing Sam talk about college, but still a bit more appreciative of Sam efforts to get in school. He had managed to convince himself Dad would recognize Sam determination and maybe, just maybe he would have been able to convince him. But here they are. Dad outside, sent away like a misbehaving child, and him, sitting silently on a chair, waiting for Dean to talk. His brother was massaging his forehead, looking downright exhausted. Or exasperated?

“Sammy, for all you are gifted in the brain department, you tend to make some pretty stupid decisions. In what world did you think Dad was just going to let you go?”

“You don’t understand Dean! I needed to try; I need to try and live a normal life. My future shouldn’t be chained to our family past. We never should have grown up the way we did. Do you know how I feel each time dad tells us he has found our next hunt? Tired, and angry. Because I never signed up to be a soldier! And wanna now something else? We’re not even really soldiers! Cause soldiers make the choice to protect their country! We didn’t have a choice Dean, Dad just took the decision out of my hands when he gave me a 45’ instead of, I don’t now, reassuring me, comfort me?”

“Sam…”

“What? Do you think I like the way we live Dean?”

“Hey, I know it’s not all roses and daisies, but we do have our moments, don’t we?”

“Yeah right. Bonding over some burning bones or shooting silver bullets at werewolves.”

“That’s not fair Sam.”

“What’s not fair is not letting me go to college, not letting me try out to live my own life, making my own choices.”

“Did I say I wouldn’t?”

“What?”

“Sam, I never said I wouldn’t let you go to college. I told you we would have to talk about the details if you want to convince me you’ll be safe so that I can convince Dad it’s fine.”

“But…”

“Sam, I don’t want you to leave us. If I could, I would never let you go. I need my partner, my brother. But I know you. You made your decision. And I don’t want you to go to college thinking I’m not proud of your accomplishments or thinking you can’t call me if you need something. And I know college is expensive, even when you have a scholarship. Plus I hope you’ll call me once in a while to tell me how it’s going under the California sun!”

“Dean I…”

“You’re a smart kid, Sam, and you deserve the chance to prove it to the world. Maybe by becoming a hotshot lawyer so you’ll be able to help get me out of prison when things get hot for me, huh? But if you want to go, I need you to understand you won’t be able to leave our world at the door. Monsters won’t stop coming because you have exams in the morning. So you’ll have to keep salting the windows, and there are a few things I want you to take with you. Because if I can’t be there to protect you, you bet your damn bitchy ass I’ll make sure nothing can get to you.”

“Jerk”

Dean can’t help but smile at Sam’s face, hiding behind his bangs. He’s so young now. His Sam has grown into this huge Sasquatch of a man, with weary eyes that conceal all the pain the years they’ve spent together have thrown at him. Just a few hours back in time, and Dean is already cataloging the differences between the man Sam would become and the young adult standing in front of him.

Still, behind the cockiness and anger, he recognizes everything he loves about his brother: the kindness, the love, the emotions he wears on his sleeve. The stubbornness, too -this ferocious will that, in later years, helped him go against both the Devil and God, surmounting blood addiction, trials, loved ones’ deaths, and betrayal. Sam had been a stronger man than Dean could have ever hoped to be. He’d been saved by his little brother’s faith in him more than once -against Michael, Crowley, Cain, Amara…

Dean still doesn’t understand why he’s been chosen for this second chance. But right now, grieving for the man Sam will never become, the man that his brother was yesterday, and all those people he left years ahead who will never be the same, Dean feels grateful he’s been chosen. Because this second chance has a bittersweet feel to it.

“When are you supposed to arrive in Stanford? Do you have a place to live in yet?”

“Not really? I mean, I was more focused on how to get Dad to accept me leaving so…”

“Really Sam? What were you going to do once there?”

“Yeah well, at least Dad taught us to be resourceful, I would have found a way.”

“Yeah, no way I’m letting you go alone now. We need to make sure your living arrangements are safe.”

“You could stay with me you know?”

“What?”

“I mean, I know I like to say I’m the one with all the brain, but we both know you’re not stupid Dean.”

“Right, you really want to unleash me in a University Sam? How do you think that would go?”

“Dean! Please, seriously. You don’t need to keep following Dad orders! You could find some major in engineering or mechanics or anything really. Just, please, won’t you come with me?”

“You know I can’t Sammy.”

“Why? Because Dad says so?”

“Again with Dad Sam? He’s not dictating for my every action you know?”

“Yeah right”

“Sam.”

“Sorry, but still”

“Hunting is my life Sam. It’s been my life for twenty years now, and it will stay this way for the years to come. If you want me to respect your choice for your future, you’ll need to accept mine.”

“Okay Dean, I don’t like it but okay.”

“I don’t like it either. I’ll miss my bitchy little brother you know.”

“And I’ll miss my jerk of a big brother.”

“Okay, that’s enough chick flick for us. Let me go and talk to Dad, we’ll talk about protecting yourself on the way to Stanford. Get ready for a road trip Sammy!”

“Thank you, Dean, really.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.”

It wasn't until the door closed behind his brother that Sam realized he had never asked about March 1999 and their father's reaction to it. Oh well, he thought. He had the entire trip to Stanford to grill his brother about it.

Chapter Text

John was rummaging in his truck trunk, hoping by occupying his hands to calm his nerves. He didn’t think Dean would ever use March 1999 against him ever again. He’d done it just once before, and as much as John hated it, circumstances really called for it at the time. But using it when clearly Sam was in the wrong, well… It didn’t make any sense. Dean was usually quite agreeable, never going against his orders, trying his best to keep both him and Sam happy. Dean was a pillar, the one thing their family relied on to keep going, to maintain unity. And he was a good soldier, who understood their family sacrifice and the importance of their mission. Sam was the rebellious one. Dean had been too lenient with him. And while John could recognize his eldest had all but raised his youngest, he still expected both boys to understand he was their father, and as such, the one to make the final decision. But March 1999…

He had really fucked up at the time, and both Dean and him knew it. And so they had come to an agreement. If Dean estimated John was about to make an even bigger mess than he had done then, he would mention the date and John would drop it, and let his son call the shot till they could talk about it. And knowing how much either of them hated the talking feelings thing, let’s just say he knew Dean wouldn’t use the date lightly. 

John had made a promise that day. And it had come back to bite him in the ass. No way was he letting Sam throw the family business to go and play house with some empty headed children thinking getting some highly revered diploma was all there was to life, and who had never gotten their hand dirty for even a day in their life. God, how could his sons be so naïve? How could they be so blind to the threats out there?. Didn’t they understand John was protecting them by teaching them everything he knew about the assholes lurking in the dark? Once you know about the hunt, you had only two choices, either hide yourself away and wait for the monster to get you, or try and fight so you can at least take a few of them with when they’ll finally get you down. So yeah, maybe he won’t win a Father of the year award, but at least both is children knew how to fight and survive, and somehow maybe they will be able to do what John had spent years failing, avenge their mother.

The sound of a door slamming shut jolted John from his thoughts. He looked up to see Dean standing in the doorway, his plaid shirt hanging loosely on his thin frame. Dean's eyes were tired, his expression unreadable. Despite his constant complaints about his father and brother's stubbornness, Dean could be even more obstinate—he’d inherited that trait from their mother. While he had loved Mary dearly, she could be utterly unyielding once she set her mind on something, especially when the well-being of her loved ones was at stake. The battle he was about to have with his son wouldn’t be easily won. After all, he had never been able to win against Mary.

“So?” John challenged.

“So I’m taking Sam to Stanford tomorrow morning, and you will let us go.”

“Are you serious, Dean? What do you think is going to happen when he gets there? Do you expect his sheltered classmates to protect him?”

“I expect our teaching to protect him!”

“Sam wants ‘normal,’ Dean. Maybe he’ll try for a few days, even a few weeks, but when people start asking questions about the salt or the weapons, he’ll throw everything to the wind! And you won’t be there to change his mind!”

“That’s why we should support him! Because whether you like it or not, Sam is going. He’ll run away; he’ll find a way. And you know what? With how well trained you had us both, he won’t break a sweat doing it, and we will have definitely lost him!”

The air crackled with tension; the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic. John stared at Dean, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. He'd always been the one in control, the one who held the reins, but now, for the first time, he felt utterly powerless.

“I said NO, boy.”

“Too bad you don’t have a choice.”

“I’m still your father.”

“Don’t let me take a page from Sam’s book and give you a reality check on that one.”

John looked at his son, completely gobsmacked. He had expected this kind of answer from his youngest, Sam had made it his trademark at this point, but not Dean, never Dean. For all he despised Sam’s perpetual angry shouts about Dean being his perfect little soldier, there was definitely some truth to it. Not even in his wildest dreams could John have imagined standing here, in the middle of the parking lot of a nameless motel, in a nameless city, being yelled at by the man he took great care training to his needs.

John's mind raced, desperately searching for a way to regain control over his sons, to force Sam back into the life he had envisioned for him, and to have Dean on his side against him. But deep down, he knew it was futile. He had created a soldier, a shield, that was now turning against him. He had wanted Dean to be Sam’s protector, and his son had risen to the challenge, going above and beyond what could be asked of a brother.

This wasn’t the first time Dean had acted as a buffer between Sam and their father, but it was the first time John felt the fear of losing them both because of it. He needed something—anything—to keep them both safe. In a desperate attempt to turn the tables, he yelled:

“If you walk out of here, don’t ever think to come back!”

John’s words echoed in the empty parking lot. Everything around them seemed to freeze; even the wind stopped blowing. Standing frozen before him, Dean turned an unhealthy shade of pale.

“Dean, I…” John tried to say.

“Guess it’s better for both of us to go our separate ways for a while, huh Dad? Just… just remember I’m here if you need me, yeah? Don’t go down the deep end because you’re angry with me, I beg you.”

“Son…”

“It’s okay, Dad. I get it,” Dean said, turning away from the man who raised him.

Silently, John watched his son’s back as Dean walked away, his stride filled with a decisive intent that was contradicted by the weight he seemed to carry on his shoulders. How could things have gone so wrong? Feeling like he had gone all the ways to Sunday in the ring, John made his way to his truck, stumbling into the driver’s seat and suddenly feeling boneless. “Oh Mary, what have I done to our boys?”

---

At the motel room door, Dean heard the rumble of his dad's car engine and turned just in time to see the truck leave the parking lot. He felt utterly drained. He'd hoped this confrontation would go differently. He'd hoped his dad would finally see reason and be there for Sam. Not long ago - or was it yesterday? -, he would have done anything for his father. But years without him had taught him that he didn't owe John his whole life. He'd given so much to his family already. He had given even more after Sam had first left, after Dad had abandoned him, after all the fucked-up things  he hoped wouldn’t happen this time around. Maybe he hadn't redeemed himself to the world, but he'd paid off any debt he owed his father. Besides, Dad hadn't made a deal for his life yet.

But Dean never thought his Dad would say those words to him. First time around, Sam had been the one told not to come back, and his brother, always so determined, had taken those words to heart. He'd spent four long years with no contact, completely cut off from the center of his life. No wonder he'd been a mess. Dean was different. He'd come back from a time when the world had gone to hell and back, so many times you learned to not get caught up in pointless arguments.

Though his body was younger, Dean's mind was older than ever. He felt the weight of his years when he looked at his family. He'd experienced a lot in the years before Time intervened. He'd met new people, formed his own opinions, and had the chance to be a strange mix of cool older brother (yes, Sam, the cool one) and a parental figure.

Being a parent in the hunting world is one of the hardest shit Dean had ever done. Taking care of Ben, Claire, or even Kristen had given him a whole new understanding of his father's struggles. Because the stress those kids had put on him really helped him to understand his dad's reactions, even if it still hurt. It also helped that Dean was now older than his father, which was a bit strange, but hey, it was what it was.

At least, this whole mess means he'll be free from his father's watchful eye for a few months, as long as Dean keeps taking the hunts his dad sends his way. Hopefully, this time away will help him set a plan in motion because, with the few minutes he’s had alone since arriving in 2002, he hasn’t made much progress on the whole “changing the course of time” thing. At least he dealt with the urgent matter : Sam leaving. Taking a big breath, Dean opened the door to get back in the little room he shared with his brother. Sam was sitting on his bed, the laptop Dean had gotten him for his birthday on his knees and seemed deeply concentrated on his screen.

“Hope you’re ready Sammy, cause we’re leaving in ten”

“What about dad?”

“He left”

“What? But…”

“It’s fine Sammy, he can take care of himself.”

“That’s not what I mean, what do you mean he left?”

“It doesn’t matter Sam. All you need to know is you’re going to Stanford. Dad will pout for a few months but he’ll answer if you call.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is nothing to understand, Dad left, and by doing so he gave us the choice to go to. So we’re going to get your butt settled to Stanford and make sure you’re all nice and protected, then I’ll go and make sure the old man won’t get himself killed with boredom now that you’re not here to argue with him. We good? Great, let’s leave, I hate this place.”

---

Sam looked incredulously at his brother, but the hard look in the older man eyes made him drop his laptop and finish throwing the last of his stuff in his duffel bag. Between searching for a missing sock and running after his forgotten toothbrush the young man tried to pry more information from his brother, unsuccessfully. In a few minutes, they were ready to go, both duffel bags thrown into the car, Dean in the driver seat, and Sam by his side, one last time.

The Impala roared on the road, leaving the crappy motel behind them. Sam knew they were about two days of driving from Stanford. Looking at his brother's closed-off face, he knew it was going to be a long trip Dean had been very clear as soon as Sam started asking questions about Dad and March 1999, clearly not interested in explaining the last few hours to his little brother. And stubbornness was a Winchester family trait. At that point, Sam could almost believe it was a genetic trait. Dean wouldn’t talk for now, not with the direct approach Sam had first taken. He would have to think of another strategy.

The road was beautiful, winding through the trees that lined its borders. The ride in the Impala was as familiar and comforting as ever. The motor rumbled softly, and the air filled with the smell of gasoline, pizza, and gunpowder – it felt like home. Despite his closed-off demeanor, Dean relaxed as soon as Sam stopped interrogating him. The tension in his shoulders eased once he got his hands on the wheel of his beloved Impala. Since Dad had given the beautiful '67 Chevy to his eldest, riding in the car alongside his brother had been a safe space. They could be themselves, free from the judgment of strangers or their father. Sometimes, Dean would even let Sam change the music for a few songs.

Letting himself be softly rocked by his brother's driving, Sam let his thoughts loose. He was a bit surprised at Dean's demeanor, the man looking almost unbothered by the fact that in less than 24 hours, they would go their separate ways. And they would call, for sure, but still. They had never gone more than two weeks separated, and it hadn't been by Dean's choice. If Sam had ever felt guilty about getting into Stanford, it had been when thinking about his big brother. Oh, how he had wished for Dean to come with him, to be safe, to taste a normal life, and maybe get his own piece of happiness along the way. God knows Dean deserved it. The man was as much a saint as a womanizer and alcohol-loving man could be. He was loyal to a fault, kind, always there when needed, a steady presence in Sam's everyday life, and a comforting pillar during the hunts their father took them on.

But last night had been different. It had been a while since one of them had gotten hurt on a hunt. This one was pretty basic, as far as hunts go: the ghost of a mechanic who had been crushed by a car he was repairing. It turned out his boss had been serving himself in the garage finances, and when his employee found out about the man’s illegal activities, he had used the leverage to extort money from the garage owner. The mechanic didn’t have the chance to see the first bill before his boss made sure the machinery had a small dysfunction, splattering the soon-to-be ghost in a gruesome mixture of body fluids.

Sam would know; the raging ghost took great care to reproduce all the gory details when he sought his revenge. The problem was, he didn’t care who he attacked, first person in his reach was a goner, and the bodies had started accumulating, tipping off the family of hunters. It took approximately ten minutes for Dean to understand what had happened to this week’s Casper. Sam wouldn’t really know how he’d done it, but his brother had looked at one thing, checked the car, then looked thoughtfully at a remote control here, a cable there, and threw a general glance at the garage. Then he had said, “Yep, good old murder.” One look at the garage history revealed a missing employee just a few weeks before the mortal accidents started to stack up. The owner of the garage, strangely preserved from the attacks, had been a bit difficult to convince. But when his former employee appeared in all his bloody glory, he immediately became more receptive, agreeing to sagely remain in the salt circle Sam had made. The ghost wasn’t as reasonable and had thrown a fit when his victim had been taken away from him. Furniture had begun to fly around, and the air had grown colder. 

Dad had wanted Sam to protect the murderer; Sam hadn’t been too keen on the order. They shouldn’t coddle the man; they needed him to tell them what he’d done with the body. Plus, it meant Dean would have to be the one to distract the furious ghost. God forbid John let anyone else make the decision here. Never mind that Dean had been the one to discover their ghost, what had happened to its living self, and why it now wanted revenge. No, Dad knew better. He would find the body, whether the owner of the garage talked or not, and kill one more son of a bitch before the end of the night. Sam hadn’t let his father get away with this behavior; he had fought him every step of the way, shouting after him when he had left them alone in the room “following his guts.” Yeah, right.

Finally, after being thrown against one wall too many, Dean had gotten a good shot of salt at the raging ghost. He had then made his way to the trembling man behind Sam and, looking him straight in the eyes, had told him: “If you don’t tell me what you’ve done to the body, I swear to God, I will get you out of this circle myself and help our friendly Casper over there have his way with you. Capiche?”

Funnily enough, the man had seemed more afraid of his pissed-off older brother than of the shouting and gory ghost hurling injuries and throwing stuff around. A few minutes later, they had known everything they needed, and Dean, having made sure both Sam and their protege had been still in the ring of salt, had made his limping way toward the door, shouting at his father: “In the basement fridge, Dad!” Sam had heard a shot when the ghost tried to get closer to Dean, then had heard his brother grumbling: “We’re going to have a blast burning Frosty! Because why would things ever get easy for us? Jeez, it’s cold in here…”

Sam had almost smiled, but his father's reappearance had erased all sense of humor he’d felt. The damn fool had been so sure the body had been buried outside… Well, he’d been wrong; look at that! He had probably looked a bit too smug because his already frowning father had looked even more surly. “Don’t even start, Sam,” he’d said.

Next thing he knew, he was having a shouting match with his father for at least fifteen minutes when Dean had made his way back to them, his slight frown the only sign of his disappointment. He had turned to the man they had just saved, cuffed him to the nearest plumbing fixture, and told him: “You’re safe. You’ll have all the time in the world to appreciate life in prison. I suggest you reflect on the consequences of murder once you’re behind bars. Karma and all that jazz, you know? Death doesn’t always stop people from getting their revenge…”

He had then turned to his brother and their father, who had stopped yelling at each other when he closed the cuffs on the murderer’s wrist. “I called the police; they’ll find enough evidence so Boss of the Year over here gets what he deserves. His ghostly friend shouldn’t kill anyone anymore. Let’s get going.”

Both he and Dad exchanged a contrite look and were about to follow in Dean's steps when his older brother suddenly dropped like a sack of potatoes. Running to his fallen brother, Sam made a quick inventory of Dean’s body, noting the bumps and rashes his many encounters with the garage walls and furniture had probably caused. He also had a nasty gash on his arm, slowly oozing blood onto his plaid shirt. Deep enough to need stitches, but not bleeding enough to make his stubborn brother (manly) pass out.

Still unresponsive, Dean didn’t even react when Sam ripped off his shirt to make a makeshift bandage and applied pressure to the wound. Had he been conscious, he would have bitched for hours about ruining one more good shirt and “didn’t Sam know how much he hated repairing their clothes?” and “money doesn’t grow on trees, Sam; you need to take better care of your stuff, I swear to God.” His brother could be quite the nagging mother sometimes —a bulky, swearing, leather jacket and plaid shirt-wearing, beer-drinking, nagging mother, but still.

Passing an anxious hand through his brother’s short hair, Sam finally found the reason for Dean’s loss of consciousness. His brother had a nasty bump on his head; he was probably in for a good old concussion. Knowing Dean, he would be awake in a few minutes. Sam had curtly given his diagnosis to their father, who had dropped to his knees by Dean’s side, looking at his son with a strange, unreadable expression.

True to himself, Dean had grunted, opened one eye, closed it, then opened both eyes before throwing a more or less steady glare around him. He had met Sam's gaze and grumbled, “The fuck am I doing on the floor?”

“Guess the ghost got a lucky shot, huh, ace?” Dad had answered. Dean had snorted, then grimaced painfully as the action flared his headache.

“Will you throw up if we get you up?” Sam had asked, to which Dean had responded negatively.

With the help of both his father and brother, Dean had stood up, and the three hunters had slowly made their way toward their car. Outside, they had been greeted by the echoing sound of police sirens approaching, and they had quickly made themselves scarce. In the safe confines of their motel room, they had taken Dean to bed, stitched him back together, and drowned him in fluids and painkillers, guilt gnawing at both Sam and their father—arguments forgotten until next time.

Thinking back on those last weeks together, Dean had been strangely silent. Even last night, coming back from the body he had to salt and burn alone, he hadn’t protested, probably too tired to hear them shout at each other again. In all their arguments, Dean had never gone against one or the other, taking Dad's orders, enduring Sam's angry shouts, and accepting both their acidic side remarks as they came, never raising his own voice.

This morning, when he had yelled at both of them to shut up, Sam had felt both relieved and afraid. Relieved because Dean wasn’t just a shadow of a man, navigating silently between his brother and father, and afraid because it had been the first time he had heard Dean go against Dad. Dean never went against Dad. Oh, he didn’t always follow the rules; when their father wasn’t home, he was actually quite cool with Sam, making sure his brother could do the activities he loved, had the time he needed to study, and eat the food he wanted, even if Dad had said he couldn’t. Hell, Dean had even gone against the “no friends at home” rule when Sam had wanted to celebrate his birthday with his friends. But he had never gone against Dad so directly, shooting with blatant disrespect at their father. While he was quite happy with the change, it made him wonder why now? The only real change had been Dad discovering his letter of acceptance. So what? Did Dean not only support him but actually want him to go to university? Then why not go too? I mean, yeah, he had dropped out of high school, but hey! They were professional liars! They could probably cook something up! But Dean had said no, and while Sam could usually convince his brother of a lot, he knew a lost argument when there was one.

He didn’t understand why his brother wouldn’t budge on the subject, why he seemed so sure he couldn’t be anything but a hunter, living dangerously, running from the law almost as often as they ran away from monsters. The hunter life is a short one: you either die young or are driven crazy by all the stuff hiding in the dark.

Either way, Sam was worried. He wasn’t going to change his mind about school; he had worked too hard and had gone through too much to give up now. But he was worried. Dean was going to be left alone against their world -their awful, dangerous, scary world. And sure, Dad would be with him, but still.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in his brother’s hunting skills; Dean was probably the best hunter he had ever met. But being the best didn’t mean you were unbeatable or unkillable. And Sam wouldn’t be there. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to survive the guilt if his brother were killed while he was at school. But Dean wanted him to go. The man who had raised him, who made sure he had milk in his cereal, stitched up the holes in his shirts, and bandaged his wounds believed in him; he was bringing him to school.

Sam made the firm resolution right then and there to call his brother regularly, check on him, and make sure he took care of himself. As good as Dean was at taking care of others, he really sucked at taking care of himself. Sam could still hear Dean’s voice, teasing him about being “too soft.” But this wasn’t just about Dean’s usual bravado; it was about survival.

He would also make sure to observe whatever rules Dean threw his way about the things bumping in the dark. If his brother could be relieved of even a little bit of concern, maybe he’d be able to concentrate better on his studies.

Calmed by the decision he made, Sam let himself be lulled by the rumbling engine of the Impala and the rock music playing softly on the radio. The familiar sound wrapped around him like a warm blanket, reminding him of countless road trips filled with laughter, arguments, and late-night snacks. Tomorrow, they would have to say goodbye. Dean would leave him, letting his little brother go to follow his dream, while condemning himself to hide in the shadows, protecting a world that didn’t even know it needed protection, facing horrors alone.

Sam glanced at Dean, who was focused on the road, a mix of pride and worry etched on his face. What would his brother do without him? Without Sam nagging him, would he even think to take care of his wounds when he got hurt? Would he remember to sleep? To eat? Sam still felt the awful pit of worry that had gnawed at him when Dean had suddenly collapsed after spending a week caring for Sam, who had caught a nasty case of the flu.

It turned out that Dean had been so focused on Sam's sickness that he hadn’t properly cleaned the gash he had gotten on their last hunt. The result? A big infection, a raw fever, and a deeply seated need in Sam to check Dean's wounds regularly each time he injured himself. Sam could still see the way Dean had swayed, his eyes struggling to stay open, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on him.

But for now, they were together on the road, like so many times before, taking comfort one last time in each other's presence. The trees blurred past, shadows dancing in the fading light, a reminder that tomorrow, they would be at Stanford, and everything would change.

Chapter Text

With his hands on the wheel of his beloved Impala, Dean finally found a moment of reprieve. While he still believed that choosing this day to return to the past was the right decision, it had been quite the joyride since waking up to Sam and Dad's shouts.

When he had awakened from his journey through time, he had a clear idea of the things he needed to do right away. The first was to give Sam the opportunity to have a normal life. Dean had never been able to forgive himself since Sam had told him he didn’t think he wanted a normal life anymore. It had once been such a dream for his brother, and Dean had taken it away from him, crashing into his life just as he had crashed into his apartment.

Hunting, death, and the tragedies that had followed them through the years had ripped away every aspiration Sam had for a different future. Later on, guilt and the burden of protecting the world had buried what remained of his brother's idea of happiness.

Oh, it hadn’t been all that bad. Both he and Sam had shared some pretty good days together, and something had definitely been blossoming between his brother and Eileen, even if his Sasquatch had tried to hide it from him. Maybe, had things been different—if their lives hadn’t been upended by God and Amara little fight, proving that the Winchesters weren’t made for peace and quiet—Sam might have finally been able to taste real happiness, with someone who would love him and understand both him and his life.

But Time had made it clear that this future wasn’t in their cards had he stayed in 2016. So Dean would make sure it was.

With his brother softly dozing next to him, Dean finally took some time to plan. First stop: Stanford. He had some money set aside for a similar occasion. Younger Dean had known his Sam almost as well as he himself knew the older version and had prepared accordingly. Last time, he hadn’t gotten the chance to slip the money to Sam—too stunned by the way the boy he had raised had gone behind his back and abandoned him without warning.

He remembered having to go through Bobby to ensure the money still reached his brother without Sam knowing he was the one sending it. Proud as Sam had been, he would have refused it. But this time, Dean wouldn’t let pride get in the way. The money would help them find a decent apartment for Sam to live in, one without a nosy roommate. Because Dean had some “renovation plans” for the place.

Then, once Sam was secure and on his way to becoming the best lawyer this world had ever seen, Dean would need to make a small list. There were some hunts he really needed to tackle himself, while others he would forward to other hunters. Maybe now would be the right time to reconnect with Caleb.

He would also need to check on some “persons of interest” and establish a home base somewhere. Bobby's house and then the Bunker had truly shown Dean how useful it was to have a resting spot. Unfortunately, getting the key to the Bunker wouldn’t be possible for now, so building his own place would have to suffice. Plus, if Sam agreed to keep in touch, maybe he’d come for the holidays?

Additionally, Dean really needed to do something about the hunter network. In his previous timeline, Bobby had been the only one trying to connect hunters, and even he hadn’t been able to accomplish much. However, for all the Campbell family embodied everything Dean hated about hunters, their lineage had created a well-functioning network that had probably saved many lives, even if it had put his mother on Heaven and Hell's radar. Still, should that happen, he could do without the ruthless, no-compromise, obtuse way of life his grandfather had imposed.

Things had changed since his younger days. Freed from Dad's views, he’d been able to confront the harsh realities of the world. Compromise had been a hard but necessary lesson to learn.

The road stretched afar, snaking its way to the horizon. They had left their crappy motel quite late in the morning, both brothers lost in their thoughts but still relishing the comfortable presence of each other by their side. Sooner rather than later, they would have to stop and eat something; after all, Sammy was still a growing boy.

Looking at his brother, Dean sighed. He couldn’t quite reconcile the young, puppy-like man with his mop of hair falling everywhere on his face with the brother he had left behind in 2016. Sam had been older, wiser, and let’s be honest, much taller. The man he’d grown up to be was self-assured, at peace with his past, and ready to face the future. He had also been a huge man, standing tall at Dean’s side, cutting quite the intimidating figure when he wanted to.

Dean wasn’t so sure about his own changes. His younger self had been a womanizer, a loyal soldier, a prankster -relying on humor and pranks to find relief from all the darkness he had to live with. When that didn’t work, he’d throw himself into women or alcohol, hoping to forget his crappy life.

After Hell, the pit of nothingness that had taken residency inside him deprived him of his usual remedy. Nothing seemed to work anymore. He had slowly found happiness in the small things: the comfort of his room, an afternoon in the car with Sam, a morning chasing bees with Cas. Always distracting himself, hiding from everyone -including his own eyes—how empty he felt inside.

Sam had grown up to be a fine man, a man Dean was proud to have as a brother. He wasn’t so sure his little brother could say the same about him. Even now, he still felt weighed down by his mistakes, never able to atone for what he’d done in Hell, or as a demon, or with Cain’s Blade. What he’d done to Cas, his brother, his friends, and innocents. And while he now had the chance to stop all this mess before it even started, he had lived it, making it real -if not for the world, at least for himself.

Dean tried to push away the dark path his thoughts were taking. He needed to plan. He couldn’t waste this second chance. The rumble of Sam’s growling stomach served as a much-needed distraction. It was time to find something to eat, and they were getting low on gas. “Let’s stop at the next town,” Dean decided, knowing that feeding his brother would stave off any complaints for a while.

The brothers soon pulled into a small town that seemed like a slice of Americana, with houses carefully lined up, white picket fences everywhere, and children playing on the too-well-maintained lawns. They found a small restaurant bustling with laughter, busy waitresses, and the appetizing smell of grilling filling the air. Despite the mouthwatering aroma, Sam still opted for a salad, prompting Dean to roll his eyes. No matter the year, he would never understand his brother's need to eat that crappy rabbit food.

It was all well and good in those early years when Sam was content to eat his vegetables and didn’t burden Dean with the “eat healthy” speech. But as they grew older, Sam had taken it upon himself to make Dean eat healthier.

It almost made Dean regret all those times he had ensured Sam had an equilibrate menu every day when Dad wasn’t home. At first, it had been difficult; cereal was often the easiest and cheapest choice. But when Dean had been old enough—or at least had looked old enough—to take a job, he had tried. While variations of mac & cheese were sometimes all he could manage, he had made his best effort to bring fruits, broccoli, and spinach to his little brother's plate.

Sam hadn’t always been the salad lover he was now and therefore hadn’t always been a happy camper. Maybe going after Dean’s food habits was a form of revenge for all those times Dean had made him finish his vegetables? He could still remember the first time he had given him spinach…

“Dean? I think it’s moving!” Sam had said, his lower lip was trembling.

“It’s not, Sammy. Eat what’s on your plate.”

“But… but it’s green, and spongy, and green. I think it’s alive! Maybe we should salt ‘n’ burn it?”

“Been there, done that. The kitchen will never be the same. Now eat your spinach, Sam!”

“But cereal!” Sam had groaned.

“Cereal won’t help you get strong and big like me. Maybe you’ll stay all small and chubby,” Dean had mocked.

Anyway, now Sam was all, “You have to eat better, Dean,” “You’ll get a heart attack, Dean,” “So much grease, that’s disgusting, Dean!” Well, Dean didn’t get it. A hunter’s life was a short one; at least they should get to appreciate small pleasures! But then again, Sam wasn’t going to be a hunter. He was going to be a hotshot lawyer, live the apple-pie life, and have all the time in the world to worry about arteries, cholesterol, and old age pains. Dean would let him go, help his brother grow to a venerable age—white hair and a bending back—without worrying about monsters in the dark.

A wave of tiredness washed over Dean as he thought about what was ahead: all the changes he had to make, the fights he’d have to face, the demons and angels he’d have to kill, and the gods he’d have to escape to finally break the family curse. Back to the car, he almost asked Sam to drive for a while, his headache making itself known once again. But Sam already thought he was acting strange; giving him the keys to the car without a fight would have seemed even stranger.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of small talk, brotherly squabbles over music and directions, and comfortable silences—both of them lost in their thoughts. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Sam dozed off beside Dean. They needed to find a place to rest—a motel or perhaps just pulling over on a side road, like they used to, to spread out the blankets and gaze at the stars for a while before sleep claimed them.

When morning light filtered through the car windows, they woke up on their respective sides, carefully nestled in the old, tattered blankets their father had kept for them since childhood. The blankets, an undiscernible brownish color and haphazardly pieced together, felt itchy against their skin but smelled like home. The night had been short, and both boys sensed the end of their trip drawing near, questions and worries weighing heavily on their minds.

By ten, restlessness had set in. They had avoided serious topics until now, distracting themselves from the burden of their overdue conversation. While Sam had a myriad of questions swirling in his mind for Dean, his older brother felt a pressing need to address the safety of Sammy’s life at Stanford. He had already checked for tattoo parlors along their route, eager to get the anti-possession tattoo as soon as possible and maybe even add some Enochian protective lines.He had secretly tried to learn the angels' language, hoping to impress Castiel. Plus, those tattoos made for pretty solid protection. With their ribs engraved, they hadn’t needed to expand on their tattoos, but he didn’t have an angel conveniently a prayer away.

Reflecting on the fine details and little arrangements he could make to protect his brother, Dean didn’t pay too much attention to the agitation taking over Sam.

“Dean, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to know… what happened in March 1999?”

“You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it. And I think you don’t need to know; you want to…” grumbled Dean. He should have known his brother would try again; he was stubborn like that.

“Damn right I do! I mean, come on, you just mentioned the date, and Dad obeyed you immediately!” Sam exclaimed, frustration spilling over.

“I can’t, Sam!”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“….”

“Dean!”

“What do you want me to say, Sam?”

“The truth, maybe? For once, I’d like to be on the same page as everyone in this family!”

“Why? So next time you talk to Dad, you’ll have more ammunition against him?”

“No! Yes? I mean….”

“Sam, what happened that day was wrong on many levels, but while Dad messed up, both you and I did too. Sure, nothing would have happened if Dad hadn’t made the first mistake, but neither of us are blameless in this!”

“So now it’s my fault!?” Sam exploded, his voice rising.

“Are you even listening to me when I talk?”

“I am, but you’re not explaining anything! It’s all vagueness, and I don’t understand, Dean! I don’t understand you, or Dad, or my own family. Something happened that was big enough for both you and Dad to—"

“It doesn’t matter, Sam. It’s in the past. It happened, and we made changes to make sure it won’t be a problem again. What more do you need?” Dean sighed tiredly.

“It matters because you and Dad are acting weird about it. It concerns me, and still, I know nothing. Please, please, Dean, tell me.”

“It’s a long story, Sam…”

“We have time,” Sam responded more calmly. He could sense Dean's defeated tone and knew he was about to cede.

“You have to promise me you won’t look differently at Dad or me after I tell you, okay? It’s in the past, and it won’t happen again. I made sure of it.”

Sam nodded enthusiastically and smiled encouragingly at him. To be honest, had this conversation happened with younger Dean, he probably would have kept silent. The first time around, he hadn’t even thought about using March 1999. While he’d been the one to make his Dad promise to let him make decisions should he use the date, he had never felt strong enough to try.

Or perhaps he had never been angry enough -angry as he had been when he demanded his father’s word. Young Dean had always been anxious for his father’s approval, but March 1999 marked the first time he had dared to confront the reality that his father could make mistakes. It wasn’t the first time he had recognized it, but it was the first time he had chosen to act on it.

Older Dean had grown much since then; the anger he felt towards his father’s deal had opened his eyes to the long history of mistakes their dad had made, both with Sam and himself. Plus, there was one thing Dean had promised himself he’d work on when he had crashed in 2002: honesty. Throughout the years the Winchesters had spent together, many of their problems and mistakes could have been avoided had they simply talked, and it had started with his parents. Long story short, monkey see, monkey do -Dean had learned how to keep secrets from both his mom and dad, and Sam had repeated what he’d seen Dean do.

Not this time. Sam needed to know Dean would be honest with him and that he should confide in his brother too. And perhaps it was time Sam knew the truth about some parts of their childhood. With a deep breath, Dean began to unravel his story.

---

Winter 1999 had been a particularly cold one in Portland. Strange deaths had caught John Winchester's attention, hinting at a possible ghost. Unsettling rumors of a strange scent lingering around the corpses prompted him to pack weapons into his truck, ordering Dean and Sam to follow him, thus bringing the small family into the cold embrace of Oregon. They settled into two small rooms in a cheap motel on the city’s outskirts. John left almost immediately after paying for the next few nights, leaving his sons to unpack.

The preceding months had been a struggle. A lead John had once deemed promising in the search for his wife’s murderer had gone cold, unraveling weeks of hard work. Meanwhile, Sam, at sixteen, was as rebellious as ever. Furious at being uprooted once more, he spent every waking moment either sulking or arguing, driving their father to the brink of frustration. Even Dean, who usually possessed an endless reserve of patience for his little brother, felt himself nearing the end of his rope after a long day of traveling with Angry Sam.

The motel's heating system was as unpredictable as the youngest Winchester, alternating between suffocating heat and sudden outages. Dean tried to create a sense of home in their cramped room, organizing a workspace for their search by spreading out clippings from newspapers and articles they had gathered on their latest case. He even used their old blankets to fashion a more comfortable bed for Sam, worried about the heating cutting out during the night. He certainly didn’t need Sick Sam on top of Angry Sam.

Tomorrow, he planned to visit the nearest school to enroll his brother. He had contacted them in advance to ensure that Sam's progress wouldn’t be lost. Hopefully, it would help Sam settle down. At least the motel room had a small kitchen, allowing them to prepare their own meals. While Dean was going to find a job as soon as possible, they were running low on funds. Sam needed new clothes for Oregon’s weather, and Dean had to use all the reserves he had. He would likely need to hustle on the side to make ends meet.

John didn’t return that first night. Instead, Dean heard the motel room beside theirs open around 4 AM, followed by the sound of his father rummaging drunkenly on the other side of the wall. This case wasn’t looking very promising…

Morning arrived with a freezing air that floated into the room, making it hard for either brother to muster the energy to get out from under the covers. Needing to make coffee, Dean finally braved the cold and shook Sam awake. “We’re going to your new school. Get up if you want breakfast before leaving, bitch…”

His only answer was an unhappy grunt, followed by the sight of an impressive bedhead greeting him. Sam wrapped himself in his blanket, shuffling around their cramped room before rummaging through his duffel bag for clothes. After gulping down a hasty cup of coffee, they climbed into the Impala.

Dean had bundled Sam up in his new coat, but he hadn’t been able to buy anything for himself. Dad had promised to give him his old leather jacket, but the man had squandered the last of his winnings on beers, unable to buy himself a new one,  he had kept his old coat for himself. Freezing his ass off, Dean cranked up the heater in his Baby, hoping it wouldn’t take too long to warm up the cramped car. The trip to the school was going to feel very long…

The director of Sam’s new school had looked quite unimpressed at Dean. He had taken in the cocky grin, the old clothes held together by stitches and will, and the devil-may-care attitude, and had immediately categorized the young man as one of those dropouts who thought school was a waste of time, had no respect for teachers, and spent too much time learning female anatomy rather than doing homework. Dean almost rolled his eyes; could this man get more obvious? But the director's demeanor shifted when he saw Sam’s records. Soon, the younger boy was settled into his new classroom, leaving Dean free to roam the city. He had dropped out of high school as soon as he could, but as he braved the cold outside, he almost regretted it. At least classrooms had working heaters!

Luck seemed to be on Dean’s side. At the gas station, a man admiring his Impala told him that the garage was recruiting a temporary aid since one of their mechanics had recently been injured. By the end of the day, Dean had a new job, some cash he hustled at the nearest bar, and dinner for him and Sam.

He arrived at the school just in time to see a mop of brown hair emerging from the building. Sam looked almost happy, which was definitely a plus in Dean’s book.

“Heya Sammy! How was your day? Kicked ass in class?” Dean called out, a grin spreading across his face.

“It was fine. The English teacher, Mr. Paulson, is really interesting. He said we’re going to do a project on local legends this month. Math wasn’t so good, though. The teacher lost me after ten minutes of droning on about some kind of equation. I liked it better at my last school,” Sam replied, shrugging.

“I’m not worried. You’ll do as well as ever! My little brother, the genius!” Dean smiled, pride evident in his voice.

Sam didn’t answer, but his cheeks flushed a rosy hue. Ha! Dean still knew how to please the brat!

“Well, to celebrate your first day at your new school, tonight we’re having homemade pizza. Wanna help?” Dean asked, trying to keep the mood light.

“I have homework, Dean!” Sam replied with an exasperated sigh and an impressive roll of his eyes.

“You’re no fun sometimes, bitch,” Dean shot back, smirking.

“Well, not all of us get to do nothing all day because we dropped out, jerk!” Sam retorted, crossing his arms.

And ouch, Grumpy Sammy was back, and Grumpy Sammy really knew how to test Dean's patience. Yeah, Dean had never really liked school; it was boring, and they never taught anything useful. But still, he had managed to maintain grades fluctuating between C+ and B+ while juggling hunts, taking care of Sam, small jobs, and housework. Give him a break!

He had even received good grades in math and physics. One of his last teachers had told him he should seriously consider college. That conversation had flipped Dean out. Teachers usually didn’t like him; they looked at him and saw trouble spelled in every language imaginable.

But sometimes, when he lay alone on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t help but dream. Going to college—maybe studying engineering, finding a stable job, securing a house where Sam could finish growing up, a place to come back to when he was older. Those thoughts shimmered like distant stars, beautiful yet unreachable.

Even so, Dean kept his letter of acceptance with a partial scholarship for MIT tucked away in his duffel bag, right next to the faded photographs of his mother and the small trinkets Sam had given him over the years.

Lost in his thoughts, Dean almost didn’t hear Sam’s small voice break the silence.

“Dean, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I know you’re working your ass off so I can go to school. It’s just that… I… I get so angry sometimes—at Dad, this family, the hunt. Why us? Why should we be the ones going after the monsters? Why don’t we get to be normal? Happy?”

Sam could be exhausting sometimes, a whirlwind of emotions that swung from the little brother Dean loved to the rebellious teenager who could get on his last nerves in a matter of minutes. The roller coaster of Sam's reactions left Dean feeling dizzy, tired, and lost, as if he’d been tossed around in a washing machine.

“Don’t worry about it, squirt. It happens,” Dean replied, trying to keep his tone light, though a knot tightened in his chest. He understood the weight of Sam's words all too well, that gnawing sense of frustration that they were trapped in a life that felt anything but normal.

A couple of minutes of awkward silence passed between them, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. They returned to the motel, only to find that Dad had left. Dean sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he checked their money reserve. Of course, their dad had taken a huge chunk of it.

“Oh great, just what we needed,” he muttered under his breath, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. As he rifled through the remaining bills, his stomach twisted. They’d scrape by for rent and food, but Dad always seemed to underestimate how long his trips would stretch. Would they have enough? The job Dean had found that morning was promising, but payday was still two weeks away.

As he settled onto his bed, Dean noticed a note on his pillow. His heart sank as he read:

“Something urgent came up. I need to go to Minnesota. I will probably not be able to answer the phone. Start research on the hunt. Call Bobby or Jim if it’s too big for you. Will be back in a few days. Take care of your brother. Dad.”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean called out, catching a glimpse of his little brother rifling through his duffel bag. “Dad had to leave urgently. We’ll need to be careful with money for a few days, but I got a job this morning, and I already paid for school, so we should be fine…”

Sam looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. “But I wanted to ask him about our class trip!”

Dean shrugged. “You know he’d probably disagree, right?”

Sam grinned bashfully. “Good thing you’re the one I get to ask when he’s not here!”

Dean sighed, the reality of their situation settling in. School trips cost money -money they didn’t have. He always made sure to shield Sam from the worst of it when their funds got low, but sometimes it felt like Sam forgot they weren’t crazy rich. Or even just “getting by.” Hunting didn’t pay much, and Dad often lost himself in research or beer when they were after something, which didn’t leave much time for a stable job.

Dean leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. He wished things were different. He wanted Sam to have all the experiences of a normal life—school trips, friends, and laughter—without the looming shadow of their reality. But for now, all he could do was keep them afloat and hope for better days ahead. And make homemade pizza.

At least the motel heating system was working again, he won’t be freezing his balls off by cooking dinner. Sam was quietly sitting on his bed, doing his homework, his tongue sometimes getting between his lips when working on a particularly difficult question. Smiling softly at his brother’s concentration, Dean started throwing tomato sauce and cheese on the ready-to-go pizza dough.

---

They had been staying in Oregon for a few days now. The weather hadn’t really improved, and there was still no news from Dad. Sam had settled well in his new school, making friends and even joining the theatre club. Meanwhile, Dean had fallen into a new routine. He woke up at 6 AM, started the coffee machine, and prepared a small breakfast before waking his brother.

Sam had groaned about getting there too early, grumbling, “I don’t understand why I have to be there 45 minutes before class starts, Dean! It’s unfair!”

Dean had ignored him, knowing he had no choice. His shifts started at 7 PM, leaving him with little option but to drop Sam off early at school. At 12 PM, he ate a quick lunch from last night’s leftovers before working again until 4 PM. He picked Sam up at 4:30 PM, made dinner while his brother did his homework, and then ate before diving into the hunt his father had left him.

Research felt like an uphill battle. Flipping through case notes, he felt the weight of his father’s absence grow heavier with each dead end, frustration gnawing at him like a persistent ache. He was too young to pass as a federal agent, and the “I’m a journalist for this newspaper you’ve never heard of” approach only got him so far. He had pieced together a few elements, but they were far from a breakthrough.

As he sifted through the case notes, Dean tried to focus on the facts despite his mounting frustration. So far, he had compiled a small list of information:

- Six victims had been reported so far, all males.

- All victims were found in the oldest part of Portland.

- Each victim suffered severe beatings.

- All victims were young, between 15 and 25, but shared no other connections.

- Each victim apparently died from hypothermia, whether directly caused by the supernatural creature roaming the city or by the harsh weather was still to be determined.

- A strange and undetermined smell lingered near all the victims.

With the initial details in mind, Dean decided to delve deeper into the locations where the victims had been found:

- The first victim was found under the Steel Bridge on the west side of the Willamette River.

- The second victim was discovered near the Oregon Maritime Museum two week later

- The third victim had been hidden away behind garbage containers at the intersection of Third Avenue and Washington St, discovered also two weeks after the second victim.

- The fourth victim was found in the middle of the North Park Blocks fourteen days after the last victim.

- The fifth victim was found frozen to death near the bus station two week later.

- The last victim had been found at the intersection of Broadway and Stark St also 2 weeks after the last victim.

The pattern was unsettling, and Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that the locations might hold a deeper significance. The cops were probably still lingering around the last victim’s location, but the older ones should be fine. Maybe hit off the library too, check if nothing like this ever happened before. Anyway, tomorrow was his day off—he might as well use it to investigate. He would have liked to hear his father’s opinion on the matter, but the man wasn’t calling him back. He'll have to make do by himself.

Dean had been surprised his father had left him with this hunt. He wasn’t supposed hunt alone after all. Oh, he’d had a few solo hunts before, but those were more like training exercises, with an older hunter nearby in case something went wrong. This was different. He had no support and no backup—except for Sam. But Dean didn’t want him involved. “What the hell was so urgent Dad couldn’t take care of this? Am I really supposed to do this alone?” he thought grimly. Knowing their luck, though, he probably wouldn’t have a choice.

---

On the other side of the room, Sam had just finished his homework. The heating system had been more reliable lately, and while the room was still small and crappy, at least it wasn’t freezing anymore. In fact, it had gotten quite warm, so Sam decided to forgo his hoodie for now. The smell of old books and the faint hum of the heating system surrounded them, creating a cocoon of warmth amidst their chaotic lives.

From his bed, where he had been working, he glanced at Dean thoughtfully. His brother had been under a lot of stress lately, probably because of the solo hunt—and, of course, because Dad was MIA. They hadn’t heard anything from him since the note he left for Dean. Well, fine, Sam thought. They were better off without him anyway. Dad being away gave Sam a lot more freedom. Dean had already agreed to let him go to a friend’s house later this week and had even promised to think about the English class field trip. Mr. Paulson had asked to see him at the end of their English class and had inquired if he’d be able to attend. Then, he had handed Sam the form to complete for the trip.

Sam had hoped to ask Dean about it tonight, but his brother looked tired and frustrated, rereading the same notes over and over again.

“Hey, Dean?” he tried.

“What is it, squirt?” sighed his brother.

“Mr. Paulson gave me the form for the field trip…” Sam added, handing him the sheet his teacher had given him earlier.

“Okay?” answered Dean before starting to read the paper. Apprehensively, Sam saw him frown as he reread the paper twice before settling into a closed-off expression.

“I can go, right? You said you would think about it!” Sam pressed, his voice rising with hope.

“Yeah, but Sam…”

“What? It’s not like I’m always asking for stuff! I never get the chance to do this kind of normal thing. And all my friends are going,” he whined, frustration creeping into his tone.

“Sam, you know that’s not true. I try, okay?”

“Please, Dean!”

Dean read the form again. It was the classic form for a classic trip at a classic museum, but there was an entrance fee, food costs, and transport? And then the whole class was supposed to get out of Portland for the week and go to some resort to play in the snow or whatever. The $145 they were asking for was a bit much for his wallet. “I’d have to forego a few things at the next milk run…” he thought. “And then Sam will complain about the cereal being the cheap one, or the salad not being green enough, or having to eat the same things three days in a row…” But it would be worse if he told him no for the stupid field trip. There’s never winning for me in this family, Dean mused. Be it Sam or Dad, they knew how to make him do anything they needed. Both would shout his head off should he say it out loud, but they could be quite similar in a lot of ways. They just had their focus on different objectives—revenge and a normal life.

He took another look at the form, feeling the weight of Sam's hopeful gaze pressing down on him.

“You’re going to the old part of town?” Dean asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Yeah? What of it?” Sam replied, crossing his arms defensively.

“All the victims have been found there…” Dean pointed out, his brow furrowing.

“So what? Should I avoid it just because it’s the same area as whatever you’re hunting? Plus that’s just the first day of the trip, then I will be far from here, get some vacation from this crappy life!” Sam shot back, frustration creeping into his tone.

“I mean, yeah! What did you expect, Sam? I’m supposed to take care of you, not let you wander all over the hunting territory of some creepy monster! You fit his messed-up criteria, Sammy!”

“Just because I’m the right age?! So do you, asshat! Plus, for all we know, they were just random opportunities, and their age doesn’t matter!” Sam argued, his voice rising.

“Really, Sam? After everything we’ve seen?” Dean's voice was sharp, but he could see Sam's determination.

“You don’t even know what you’re hunting! Maybe it doesn’t care!” Sam countered, his eyes fierce.

“But what if it does?” Dean pressed, his concern palpable.

“Then I won’t be alone, as all the victims were, may I remind you!”

“What?” Dean said, perplexed, his voice suddenly more calm

“It was in the newspaper this morning! One of my friends is obsessed with this case…” Sam explained evenly.

“What did they say?” Dean leaned in, his interest piqued despite himself.

“That Josh Carper had stayed behind at school and had therefore left alone, Mark Devries was coming back from his girlfriend house, Thomas Adam was on his usual track, he was prepping for a marathon or something, as for Jack McCullen and Louis Johnson, they both had part time job, both finishing late and both used to go back home alone. We don’t know yet for the last victim. Here, it’s this article” answered Sam while giving him the newspaper. Dean red avidly the text.

“You know what else is strange” he suddenly said

“Guess you’ll tell me, Jerk”  Sam snarked back

“Very funny, Bitch… But seriously, don’t you think it’s strange none of the victims were reported missing before being found dead? They were last seen three days before resurfacing somewhere in the old part of Portland, and nobody asked about them? I mean, the oldest one I can understand, but Josh was a high schooler -no way his family wouldn’t have noticed him missing. Same goes for Thomas and Mark.”

“Maybe they were staying alone for a few days; parents having a work trip or something…”

“Yeah, maybe, but still. I’ll go see the families tomorrow; I need to check something…”

“Dean? What about my trip?” Sam asked, his voice small.

“You can go, but Sam, you need to help me with the money. Pay part of it with your allowance or something because I don’t get paid until next week, and I need to pay rent and food.”

“Of course! Thank you, Dea, you’re the best brother ever!”

“Yeah, until next time I ask you to clean the dishes, right, squirt?” Dean smiled. But Sam wasn’t listening anymore, already lost in thoughts about the trip and everything he would be able to do with his friends.

The next day, Dean left Sam at school, the form and money for the trip in his backpack, feeling much happier than he had in the last few weeks. The hunter then headed to Josh Carper’s house. It was a normal house, neither small nor large, buried under the snow from the previous night. Dean approached the door and knocked. A girl, roughly Sammy’s age, opened it, a weary look on her face as she tried to soothe the crying baby in her arms.

Dean cleared his throat and said, “Hi, my name is Dean Campbell. I was a friend of Josh's. I was out of the city and just learned what happened, and I guess I just…”

“I’m Amanda, Josh’s sister. Come on in,” she sighed, stepping back inside, the baby still wailing.

“I… do you need some help with him? I mean, I used to take care of my little brother when he was that age, and sometimes you just need a breather, y’know? So… if you want…”

“Yes! Please! He’s been crying almost non-stop since Josh’s disappearance! I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what he’d do, please…” Amanda replied, her eyes misty with unshed tears.

“Here, gimme,” Dean said gently. He took the fussy baby and began softly rocking him. Almost unconsciously, he started humming “Hey Jude,” as his mom had done so often for him, and as he himself had done many times for Sam, his voice low and soothing. Amanda looked at them, her expression utterly defeated.

“It’s been a few weeks now, but Jamie is still searching for him… Josh is the one who raised us, you know. I don’t know how much he told you; he doesn’t like the emotional discussions, but he really stepped up when Dad left.”

A bit guilty, Dean lied, “No, he didn’t talk a lot about this with me…”

“Yeah, well, I guess he didn’t want to talk about his crappy life at home during the rare times he could have some fun, huh?” Amanda replied grimly.

“What about your mom?”

“Working two jobs and drinking herself to oblivion once she’s at home. She’s been like this since Dad ran away two months ago. Josh’s the one who took care of us kids. Made sure we had food, helped us shower, and did our homework, you know? He was a good brother; he loved us…”

“Yeah, I get you,” Dean sighed, his gaze wandering around the cluttered room. Empty cans of beer littered the floor, Jamie’s toys lay haphazardly everywhere, and dirty dishes piled high in the kitchen. The entire house had a weighed atmosphere to it, smelling of alcohol and despair. In front of him, Amanda had stopped trying to hide how tired she felt. Josh’s body had been found three weeks ago, and she’d probably taken on the burden of the housework and grief alone.

“Anyway, you had questions?” tried to say more firmly Amanda

“Nothing really, just wanted to know if anything strange happened before Josh’s disappearance.”

“Strange?”

“Like, I don’t know, new people, odd noises, flickering lights…”

“Flickering lights?”

“Doesn’t really matter… just, did you notice anything different?”

“I mean, not really. Josh was really stressed out because of school. That night, they told us he had to stay behind because one of his teachers was worried about his grades. He’d been neglecting schoolwork to help us, and… yeah. He never came home. I… I didn’t know what to do. I would have called the police, but Mom is the one with a working phone; they cut the line at home because she forgot to pay the bills…”

“You sure nothing had changed?”

“Well, Josh told me he had met someone—a new friend. He didn’t say much, but I remember he looked happier when talking about it.”

“He told you where they had met?”

“Not really. What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, but Josh was a good guy, and I want to know what happened to him, you know?”

“Well, you can’t do worse than the police at this point. I swear if there wasn’t a body, they would have thought he’d run away or something, but Josh would have never done that, never!” As her voice raised, Jamie, still in Dean’s arms, cried out, prompting Dean to quietly rock him again.

“I know he wouldn’t, but I need to understand what happened. Do you remember anything he could have told you about this guy? Even the smallest detail?”

“Nothing really. I think they met by the river… maybe. We were talking about the museum when he told me he had met this great guy who understood him, and they had spent a whole afternoon talking or something.”

“Okay, it’s a start. I’ll do my best to get whatever took your brother from you, Amanda, I swear to God,” Dean answered quietly but firmly. “Meanwhile, do you want some help?”

An hour or so later, Dean left the Carters’ home, the house cleaner and the children resting. He had given his cell number to Amanda. “If you need anything or remember something, don’t hesitate, okay?”

Next stop of the day was the Devries house. No one was home, but a kind old lady living in their neighborhood informed him that the parents were rarely there. Mark was the one who took care of his younger brother. His dad had gotten a promotion and had to travel a lot, and his stepmom wasn’t the motherly type. While the brothers were usually seen together, the week before Mark disappeared, he had been alone.

The old neighbor told Dean that the younger brother had been sent to his grandparents for a few days, but Mark had wanted to stay behind. She didn’t have much more to share with Dean, except for some delicious cookies she gifted him before he left.

“Oh,” she said as he was about to go, “there’s just one thing a bit strange: Mark was supposed to be alone, but I’m sure I saw someone else with him the night before the poor boy disappeared.”

Dean stored this information away, feeling the threads of a larger story weaving together. He noted that Jack McCullen, the first victim, had been living alone. Recently emancipated, he was currently embroiled in a custody battle with his father to get his younger brothers out of the family home.

At Louis Johnson's apartment, no one was home either, but the names on the door indicated he lived with Lucy Johnson. A quick search revealed that Lucy was his twin sister, who had been in and out of a psychiatric hospital due to the abuse she had suffered from their mother. She’d been hospitalized for weeks before Louis's disappearance.

As the day went on, Dean began to see a pattern emerging—one that he didn’t like at all. He opened the journal his father had gifted him to record his hunts.

There wasn’t a lot of information yet: notes on their last encounter with Djinns, a whole paragraph on the extinction of vampires, and his research on how ghosts react to salt. He even had a few pages dedicated to werewolves—because, after all, werewolves were cool. But this morning, Dean had started a brand-new page to document everything about this hunt. The story that was unfolding didn’t paint a pretty picture.

Someone—or something—was targeting brothers who took on the burden of being their siblings’ parents. Teenagers or young adults who had stepped up in the absence of their own. Dean was self-aware enough to realize he fit that criteria much better than Sam did. A wave of doubt washed over him. Should he tell Sam? Ask him to stay home? But Sam had been so excited when Dean agreed to the trip. Should he really rip that happiness away from him?

No, no way… Dean would have to manage this. He reassured himself that maybe their dad would be back soon enough to help him deal with the situation.

Closing the notebook, Dean started the Impala and headed to pick up Sam from school. Together, they would go to the library so Sam could work on his homework while Dean searched for more information on whatever was haunting the neighborhood.

---

Sam had been on a cloud all day. The forms for the trip had been dutifully given to Mr. Paulson, and he had proudly shared the news with his friends. Tomorrow, they’ll be on their way to the Museum, and the out of town. They had spent every free moment discussing how great it would be to get away from home.

While waiting outside of school, the trip was still the center of their discussion. Charles, a tall and lanky guy with a mop of blond hair, animatedly explained to their small group, “I can’t wait to leave! Do you know how awful it is at home right now? I have one older brother who’s either bossy or ignoring me, and three younger sisters who have three moods: bitching, crying, or plotting my demise… And I don’t even know which is worse!” he exclaimed dramatically.

Anthony, a brunet on the smaller side, snickered. “That’s because you have three sisters! But older brothers are the worst, dontcha think, Sam? I mean, mine spends his days lurking in his room, shouting at either me or my parents or hanging out with his friends.”

Sam felt a twinge of uncertainty. Yeah, Dean could be a jerk sometimes, but he had always been there for him. Sure, after a fight or to annoy him, Dean might ignore him, but a look from Sam could easily make him stop. He almost never shouted—at least not at Sam or their dad. To be fair, Dean’s silence could be much more terrifying than any shout. And his brother never went out if it meant leaving him alone. Dean always made sure Sam was fine, happy, and safe. But those were his friends, and what Dean didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?

“Yeah, yeah, older brothers are the worst,” muttered Sam. Just as the words escaped his lips, a familiar but unusually chilly voice called from behind him, “Sam, let’s go. I need to get to the library before we head home.”

Sam froze. Had Dean heard him? He tried to catch his brother's gaze, but Dean had already turned his back and was jogging toward the Impala. Hesitant, Sam threw a quick goodbye to his friends and followed.

The car was unusually silent, and Dean gripped the wheel tightly. Softly, Sam tried to spark conversation.

“So, how did the investigation go?”

“Fine. Don’t worry about it,” Dean replied briefly.

“You found out what you’re hunting?”

“No, but I know who his prey is.”

“Really? That’s great!” Sam said enthusiastically.

“It is, isn’t it?” Dean’s tone softened. “What about you? How was your day?”

“It was great! Miss Clements, our theatre teacher, wants us to do a Shakespeare play. We talked about the trip, and I did really well on my last math test, even if our teacher is a dope. Thanks for helping me work on it, by the way!” Sam explained, a smile creeping across his face.

“That’s good, Sammy,” Dean replied indulgently.

Yet, his brother's words stung. After a day unraveling the lives of five boys who had gone above and beyond for their families, it was hard not to take Sam's words as an affront—an insult to them, to him. But Dean knew his brother well; he recognized that Sam hadn’t truly agreed with his friends and felt guilty the moment the words were spoken. So yeah, it hurt, but it didn’t really matter.

At the library, both brothers settled at a table, surrounded by books. Dean wanted to check the town’s archives, and soon he found something substantial.

Cross-referencing the weather during the winter months with the inexplicable deaths, Dean uncovered a troubling pattern that had repeated itself for years. A first wave of bodies in 1901, another in 1933, then again in 1966, and now in 1999. Every 33 years during winter, a series of mysterious deaths marred Portland. They usually started a week before the Winter Solstice and ended a week after the Spring Solstice. Seven boys, aged between 15 and 25, were found dead every two weeks—boys who, had Dean been able to interrogate their families, would likely have been taking care of their siblings, acting as parental figures.

But why? What could be killing them? A sudden intuition made Dean reach for the archives dating back a year from the first series of deaths, hoping to find a clue that would unravel the sinister mystery.

---

Sam was trying to concentrate on his homework, but it was in vain. Guilt gnawed at him for bad-mouthing his brother when Dean had been so accommodating. His mind drifted back to those days spent at Bobby's after he had run away to Flagstaff. Dean had been livid, and they had had a huge fight. Bobby had told him then that it was the parents' job to protect their children from harm—not even themselves. It was the child's job to be "bitchy" about it, a way for Sam to express frustrations in a safe environment.

Sam hadn’t fully understood then, and he still didn’t get it now. He never felt afraid to complain, to raise his voice, or express his opinions. Dean was different. Sometimes, Sam wondered if there was more to Dean's compulsive need to be perfectly obedient to their father than met the eye.

Giving up on his homework, Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was intensely focused on whatever he was reading, jotting down notes in his journal, his brow furrowed in concentration. Suddenly, he closed all the archives he had taken except for one and began reading it again, growing increasingly fidgety. Then, a small “Yahtzee!” escaped his lips.

“What? What is it?” Sam asked, intrigued.

“Think I just found our culprit!” Dean exclaimed.

“Seriously?”

“Yep, good old ghost,” Dean said with satisfaction.

“A ghost? Whose ghost?”

“This chick, Jane McAllison. She died in 1900. Accidentally killed by a boy trying to steal bread for his little brother. They were up some stairs, and he pushed her; she fell…”

“The bruising!” Sam’s eyes widened. “The police thought they had been beaten up, but it could be from a fall down the stairs!”

“That’s what I thought! Look at this -apparently, she survived the fall but died of hypothermia a few hours later!”

“That’s great, Dean! Do you know where she’s buried?”

“Yeah, a local cemetery.”

“Let’s go then!” Sam said eagerly.

“What? No way. You’re supposed to leave tomorrow on a trip. What happens if you get hurt during the hunt? CPS will be on us faster than you can say Poughkeepsie. You go, I’ll wait for Dad. The next victim won’t be taken for at least a week, and he should be back soon.”

“But…”

“Sam, please…”

“I don’t like it, Dean.”

“Well, boohoo, squirt.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

And just like that, the matter was closed. The next day, Sam went on his trip, duffel bag hiding salt and a knife tucked between his socks and pants. Dean went to work, anxiously waiting for Dad’s response to the voicemail he left. When his father finally called him back, Dean braced himself for the inevitable.

“Dean, when I say something is urgent, it’s urgent. I can’t leave Minnesota right now; there are people depending on me. Seems to me you’ve done your research, and now it’s just a matter of salt and burning the ghost. Don’t call me unless there’s a real emergency. And don’t think we won’t talk about you letting Sam go wherever he wants. For God’s sake, Dean, what don’t you understand about Protect Your Brother!” Dad growled through the phone.

Well, wasn’t he all warm and fuzzy? Dean sighed, feeling his father’s disappointment settle heavily on his shoulders. It seemed no matter what he did, there was always something wrong—a mistake he made, something for his father to rage about. Now he was supposed to take on his first hunt solo, and a nagging feeling in his gut told him this was a bad idea.

“Guess it means I should mount a small expedition to the cemetery then,” he muttered to himself. At least Sam was far away from danger.

Dean spent the next day preparing for the salt ’n burn and working at the garage. With Sam away, there was less food to buy, which helped his seriously dented finances. Dad wasn’t coming back anytime soon, and Sam’s trip was supposed to end in five days. If Jane’s ghost kept to her pattern, she’d claim a new victim in three days, and the body would reappear in seven. Dean needed to strike before she could act.

But a nagging thought lingered: what had she done with her victims for those four days? Where did she keep them? It didn’t really matter; he would send her to the other side before she could do it again. Still, he should probably check on Amanda.

When he arrived at the small house, Josh Carper’s siblings were happy to open the door for him. Dean spoke with Amanda, who seemed to have slept a bit more since he last saw her. Carefully avoiding the supernatural aspects of his research, he told her he had found a trail regarding her brother’s murder.

“I’m almost certain I’ve found out what happened, but I still need evidence. Then I can go to the police and maybe help you all get some closure.”

“You’ve been so kind, Dean, but why go so far for us?” she asked, her eyes searching his.

“I don’t know. Maybe you remind me of someone… or maybe Josh did.”

“You know, it takes one to know one. I saw it in everything you’ve done here—the ‘big brother is in charge’ look. Guess your childhood isn’t all daisies and roses either. Wanna have some advice?”

“Not really, but I guess you’re still going to give it to me,” Dean replied with a wry smile.

“I always knew what Josh sacrificed for us, and I love him for it as much as I hate him. I’m the younger sibling. Josh would have never let me take on any of his burdens had he been alive. Now that he’s gone, I wish I could go back in time and tell him it’s okay… that we’d be fine if he took a break, that I could help. It takes a strong heart to carry a parent's burden, but it takes an even stronger one to accept help. Will you think about it? Please?”

Dean left the Carper’s house, a thoughtful expression shadowing his face. Amanda had dropped the subject as soon as she had said her piece, but her gaze lingered on him, as if she could see straight through to his soul. He understood where she was coming from, but she didn’t know their life.

Having to take the slack from Dad was just part of it. Hunting, their mother’s death, Sam being Sam—all of it weighed heavily on him. Relaxing and letting go of some of that burden felt impossible. But deep down, he never thought of it as a burden; he was happy to help. It was what he was made for.

Dean was supposed to work one more day before his day off. He had already decided he would go to the cemetery the night after his last shift, giving himself a whole day to recover in case he encountered any difficulties. He had packed a bag with the essentials: salt gun, iron, EMF reader, his trusty Zippo, and a hefty bag of rock salt. He also took a knife and a shovel; getting to the body alone in the cold was going to be awful. With everything going on, he still hadn’t bought a new coat. Oh well, he’d just have to layer up with an extra hoodie.

---

The night was cold, the roads dimly lit by streetlights. High in the sky, the moon bathed the world in its pale light, giving the snow-covered city an otherworldly glow. Dean had always liked driving at night -just him, music, and his beloved Baby- but tonight felt different. Was it the fact that he was completely alone for the first time? Or was it the nagging feeling that had settled in his gut, whispering that something was off?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the unease. After all, he had faced worse. As he navigated the empty streets, the silence deepened his thoughts. What if he made a mistake? What if something went wrong? But he couldn’t turn back now. There was a ghost to confront, and he was determined to put an end to Jane McAllison’s reign of terror.

The cemetery loomed ahead, dark and gloomy, the last place on Earth he wanted to be. He had made some reconnaissance yesterday and knew where the grave was located. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the Impala, the cold air hitting him like a slap. The crunch of snow beneath his boots echoed in the stillness as he made his way toward the grave.

“Just one more ghost to put to rest,” he muttered, trying to muster some confidence. But as the wind whispered through the trees, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Slowly, he made his way to the old part of the cemetery. The eerie feeling was almost familiar, a strange sense of comfort wrapping around him like a well-worn coat. How many times had he and his family roamed between graves? Memories of Sam, young and curious, tugged at his heart—those moments before everything changed.

He finally arrived at Jane McAllison’s final resting place. Her grave was quite ordinary, no different from the others surrounding it. A simple inscription read: “Jane McAllison, beloved daughter, mother, and wife, 1886-1900.”

As he knelt down, the chill of the damp earth seeped through his jeans. The air felt heavier here, as if the ground itself was holding its breath.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he whispered, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy for the lost soul. “But it’s time to move on.”

Slowly, he started to dig into the grave, the earthy smell of disturbed mud filling the air, mingling with the fresh, watery scent of melting snow. The work was tedious and slow-going, the freezing ground twice as hard as usual. Yet Dean felt relieved by the repetitive motion, slowly warming up with the exercise his body was subjected to. Silver lining and all that, he thought wryly.

Getting to the casket felt anticlimactic. Dean quickly dosed the body in salt before setting Jane’s remains aflame. Task accomplished, he thought as he slowly turned to make his way back to the car. A sneeze escaped him, breaking the stillness. “Of course I’d get a cold on top of this fucked-up hunt… Well, tomorrow I rest. Nothing but sleep, warmth, and TV watching… Nobody will be here to stop me anyway!” He grumbled under his breath, already envisioning the comfort of his couch.

Just as he reached for his phone to call his dad and report that the job was done, a freezing draught swept through the cemetery, sending a shiver down his spine. Suddenly, something heavy slammed into the back of his head. The impact was sharp, shocking, and before he could react, Dean found himself crashing to the ground, the world spinning around him.

In that fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of a small, ethereal figure, its face twisted into a victorious smile before darkness closed in.

Under the glimmering stars in the old cemetery, the lonely shape of a sleek Impala caught a ray of moonlight. Nothing around the classic car disturbed the silence.

Chapter Text

In 2002, Dean was interrupted in his recounting of his story by his little brother.

“I remember Portland! How is it I don’t remember anything about this?” Sam exclaimed, brows furrowing in confusion.

“You were on your trip, remember?” Dean replied, trying to keep his tone light.

“But still, you were hurt! I would have known if you’d been hurt!” Sam answered incredulously.

“How?” Dean sighed, exasperated.

“What?”

“No, seriously, Sam. How would you have known I was hurt? You weren’t there, neither was Dad. If I didn’t tell you…” Dean trailed off.

“But Dean, my trip wasn’t that long. The only thing that I remember is that we had to left the city almost as soon as I came back cause you were sick! I know I wasn’t always a good brother, but I would have noticed!”

“Well, you didn’t. But then again, we had bigger problems at the time, don’t you think? Anyway, the last part of the story is a bit fuzzy for me, so Dad’s the one who recounted it to me afterward.”

---

In March 1999, John Winchester received an unexpected call -a call that made him pack his essentials, leave Sam and Dean in Portland, and hit the road to Minnesota. He’d been staying there for a few weeks now, and guilt gnawed at him for leaving his boys miles away in some shabby motel.

But a call from Kate had turned his world upside down. He had another son -a little nine-year-old named Adam- who wanted to know him, who had been asking his mom repeatedly about him. It was an echo of his past life, a time when the world had seemed simpler, when Mary had been alive, and monsters were just imaginary creatures.

So, when Kate had called about Adam, he had come running, desperate to connect with this child he never knew. The night Dean had called, he had just had a huge fight with Kate about hiding his third son from him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d shouted, frustration spilling over. When Dean had called, the weight of his choices mingled with the guilt of abandoning his older sons and the rage he felt at discovering Adam’s existence made him snap at his elder.

As soon as the call ended, he regretted his tone. He had never been good with Dean. Sure, his boy had grown up well—maybe a bit cocky, sometimes too concentrated on his last conquest—but he was loyal, strong, and so, so good. Still, John felt self-conscious and guilty whenever he looked into Dean's green eyes, so similar to Mary’s.

Hunting was no life to raise children in. It was messy, dirty, and dangerous. He was determined to make sure Adam would never have to face that world. Dean lived and breathed the Hunt, while Sam, for all his desire to run away from it, was far too similar to John—far too angry not to return to hunting. Each time he looked at Dean, Mary’s eyes seemed to look back at him, accusing.

After that disastrous call, there was no news from Portland. John savored the time with Adam, getting to know the small boy and connecting with him. But as the days passed, his worry grew. Dean should have called back by now. He needed to go back and check on his other sons.

Kate had been understanding. She told him to return to Oregon; Adam and she would stay behind. Neither of them wanted Adam in the hunting world.

He’d been on the road for a few hours when his phone rang, sending a jolt of anxiety through him.

“John Winchester?”

“Who’s calling?” John demanded, a knot tightening in his stomach.

“This is Emily Goldstein with the Child Protective Services in Oregon. I’m calling about your son, Sam Winchester.”

“What happened to Sam?” Panic surged in his voice.

“Please, calm down, sir. I need to inform you that we’ve taken Sam into custody.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Dean? What’s happening with Sam?”

“Dean? That would be one Dean Winchester, correct? I’m sorry to say he’s missing.”

“What?!” John's heart raced.

“Sir, I’ll ask you once more to calm down. I have Sam here with me. His class had to return early due to worsening weather conditions at their resort. His teacher grew concerned when he couldn’t reach you or your son. The director, who met with Dean, thought it best to contact us when his workplace reported he hadn’t been back since his last day off. Where are you right now, Mr. Winchester?”

“I’m on my way back from Minnesota. Family emergency. Can I talk to Sam?” John’s voice trembled with urgency.

“Sam has some questionable scars. I’m not sure we can allow contact between you and your son until an investigation is completed,” the CPS representative replied coolly.

“I need to talk to Sam! I need to know what happened to Dean. Please, please let me talk to my son. I don’t abuse him. I may not be around a lot, but Dean is very responsible. He would have never left like this. Something happened to my son, and I need to know if Sam knows anything about it!”

“Sorry, Mr. Winchester, it’s protocol. But the police are searching for your eldest. I’ll ensure they know he probably didn’t disappear voluntarily,” she tried to placate him.

“Can you at least tell me if Sam is fine?” John urged, his heart racing.

“He’s doing well, asking for you and Dean.”

“Of course he is... we’re his family, lady.”

The conversation fell flat after that. The CPS lady told him to get there as soon as possible; both he and Sam would be interviewed to evaluate their relationship. John scoffed at the thought. How could anyone understand their family? Plus, interviews meant he couldn’t go out searching for Dean.

Twenty hours later, he parked his car in front of the police bureau Mrs. Goldstein had mentioned. An inspector approached him, looking grim.

“I’m Paul Gardner. We had a long discussion with Sam. His teacher and director seemed to have the wrong impression about Dean. But I’m worried your eldest is the last victim of a serial killer we have on our hands. His disappearance fits the pattern of other boys who have gone missing in recent weeks. And I’m afraid he fits the perpetrator’s criteria perfectly. He’s young, takes care of his brother, disappeared at night, and was alone at the time. The only thing I don’t understand is what his car was doing at the cemetery.”

John paled. The hunt! Of course, it was the hunt. Dean must have been taken by whatever he was hunting. Fucking hell, why hadn’t he listened to his son’s instincts? Dean had told him he needed help! Worse, he hadn’t even listened to his son’s theories. He didn’t even know what the hell Dean had been hunting! But something caught his attention.

“You’ve found the Impala?” John asked, forcing himself to focus.

“Yeah… the thing’s a beauty. Your son takes good care of it.”

“That he does. Did you check it out?”

“Yeah, nothing notable here, except a leathery notebook with some crazy stuff in it…”

“Dean wants to write a book on all the myths and legends we encountered on our travels,” John invented, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Still, there’s some wild stuff in here, but we won’t need it for the investigation, nor the car. So if you want, you can take them back,” said the inspector, shaking his head doubtfully.

“What about Sam?” John pressed, anxiety creeping back in.

“We haven’t told him anything about Dean. Poor boy is already in a frenzy about the CPS intervention. He keeps insisting he’s old enough to take care of himself, and we’re crazy if we think you or Dean are hurting him. I think his exact words were, ‘Dad or Dean are incapable of hurting me; they’re just irritating mother hens, Dean even more so than Dad. That’s why our father knew he could leave us alone. So you can take your accusations and your self-righteousness and shove it up your ass!’”

“Sounds like him. Sorry about the potty mouth. We raised him right, but we probably never self-censored ourselves well enough. Sammy is usually calm and polite, but threaten his family, and he can swear like a sailor.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’re probably worried about Dean. We explained the situation to Mrs. Goldstein. She agreed to be accommodating. She’s still concerned about Sam’s scars, but we agreed that the priority is Dean.”

“What does that mean?” John asked, his heart racing.

“It means that for tonight, Sam will stay at his teacher’s house. The man is an emergency foster parent, so it should be fine. He has a wife and one child who’s away at college right now. Hopefully, we’ll find Dean before it’s too late, but John, I’ll be honest—we don’t know where the killer keeps his victims, and they usually resurface three days after their disappearance. Which means Dean only has 24 hours left.”

John didn’t respond. In the small police station, the open space was filled with agitated policemen. A board displayed various pictures of previous victims pinned to it, with locations and witness statements carefully pasted beneath them. Would Dean be reduced to this? Just a picture on a board, an unsolvable case for the police to classify, an unmoving body found alone on some street? No, no—not Dean. Not playful, vibrant, kind, painfully alive Dean. No way in hell. John wouldn’t let it happen.

With agitation bordering on desperation, John opened his son’s journal. Dean had made meticulous notes on Salt vs. Ghost, and John almost got distracted by blueprints for a more efficient salt gun. There were also some intriguing thoughts about protection for houses and the Impala, all written in Dean's steady and strong hand.

A few pages in, John found what he was searching for. Dean had apparently noted the same facts as the inspector regarding the victims. He had spent considerable time researching one Josh Carper. Dean meticulously documented the archives he had searched, the library he visited, and included a few notes on the supposed culprit.

Committing Jane McAllison’s name and the cemetery's location to memory, John recalled the inspector's comment about the location of his son’s beloved car. A quick check at the woman’s grave confirmed what John already suspected: Dean had likely taken care of her remains. This meant either she wasn’t the ghost haunting the area or something else was binding her to this Earth.

John's next stop had been the library. As he delved into Jane's story, a sudden illumination struck him. Dean had made a note about the teenager who had killed the poor woman. Although Dean hadn’t concentrated his research on him, he had still documented some intriguing details-perhaps an afterthought or a gut feeling. But his son had the bad habit of ignoring his instincts. For all the bravado and posing, Dean certainly struggled with an unhealthy dose of self-doubt.

The boy who had killed Jane McAllison -Jack Wilson- had been caught almost immediately and sent to some prison. There had been little information on him, but a newspaper article just a few days older than the one reporting Jane's death recounted the macabre discovery made by an old fisherman: a young body, perhaps 10 or 12 years old, frozen to death at the entrance of the sewers beneath the city. The boy was named Timothy Wilson.

John recoiled; he could almost visualize the scenario. Jack, full of bravado and standing strong, hiding his younger brother in the sewers to protect him from the worst of the weather. And Timothy, waiting for his older brother as he tried to find food for them. If one had green eyes and the other a mop of brown hair in John's imagination, well, nobody would know the difference.

It wasn’t much, but Dean didn’t have a lot of time. Hopefully, the old sewers were still accessible, and that was where Tim was taking his victims -maybe hoping to get his brother back. That was where Dean was.

Armed with this new knowledge, John made his way to the cemetery. That had been where Dean had last been seen, and an old map indicated that the sewers had an entry point nearby. Wrapped in his leather jacket, he took with him blankets, a light torch, and his salt gun. He didn’t have time to search for Timothy’s remains; with Sam in CPS, dispersing the ghost would have to be enough. He had also made a copy of the sewer map.

The sewers were bathed in darkness and putrid, freezing water. The cold, while better than it had been outside, still seeped into his bones, and John wished he had brought that new coat. The silence in the underground of Portland was only interrupted by the distant rumbling of the city above. Suddenly, a new sound echoed through the tunnels -a chilling sob of a hurting boy. It was the painfully familiar voice of his son, softly crying for help.

When John descended into the sewer, he tried to prepare himself for anything, but nothing could have readied him for the sight of Dean like this. His boy's skin was almost blue, whether from the beating he had apparently taken or the icy chill surrounding them. Standing over him, translucent and smiling maniacally, was Timothy Wilson, getting closer and closer.

“You’ll be mine forever now, my big brother!” Timothy taunted, his voice echoing eerily in the damp darkness. “I’ll be the perfect little brother! Your family doesn’t need you, but I do. You will never abandon me, will you? You’ll stay here, won’t you? Won’t you, Jack?”

John almost didn’t hear him, but Dean still managed to respond to the ghost. “I already have a little brother, you sonuvabitch! He’s bitchy, gassy, geeky, but he’s mine, and I love him!”

Leave it to his son to antagonize the asshat trying to kill him… but the painful cough that broke Dean’s bravado kind of ruined the intended effect. They hadn’t noticed him yet, so John slowly took aim and shot the ghost down. Timothy dispersed in a cloud, his cry of rage echoing through the empty sewers.

Not missing a beat, John ran to his son, who had relaxed as soon as the ghost had disappeared.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, it’s me, ace. Everything is going to be fine; don’t worry,” John answered, carefully wrapping his unmoving son in the blankets he had brought with him.

“Whe-where were you? I n-n-needed you! Where were y-you? S-Sam was s-supposed to come back from his t-t-trip, and no-no-nobody would have been home, and then what?” Dean babbled, his voice trembling.

“Sam is fine. We need to worry about you right now,” John said, urgently trying to assess his son's injuries. Nothing seemed broken, but Dean would probably be all black and blue for a while after this little experience.

“It must be worse than I thought if I’m more important than Sam being alone and unprotected,” Dean whispered, attempting a smile.

“Neither one of you is more important than the other, idiot. Sam needs you because you’re older. But right now, he’s probably sleeping in a nice house, under nice covers, in a nice bed,” John remarked, trying to find some connection. But being underground really didn’t help the situation. He would have to bring his son out by himself and call 911 as soon as possible.

“You—you didn’t tell him what happened?” Dean asked feebly.

“And have Bitchy and Worried Sam riding my ass until we found you nice and healthy? Yeah, I don’t think so!”

“Yeah, he can be quite the little bitch, can’t he? But hey, he has his good sides,” Dean replied, his attempt at humor faltering.

He had stopped trembling but was cold, so cold to the touch. John gnawed at his lips. All his first aid knowledge told him that wasn’t a good sign. He needed to get Dean to the hospital. Right. Now. Plus, Timothy could come back at any moment, and John needed to concentrate on getting his son out of here, not fighting a crazy ghost.

Gathering Dean in his blankets, he lifted his son into his arms in a princess carry. It was a testament to Dean's state that he didn’t even protest being carried. “Like some girl, it’s humiliating, Dad,” he muttered, a weak attempt at humor that reminded John of their many previous exchanges.

With his son secured in his arms, the older Winchester hastily made his way out of the sewer. Luckily, Timothy didn’t interfere. Once the blemished moonlight greeted them, John pressed on the speed dial for 911, all while running and informing them they were headed to the nearest hospital. It would be quicker this way, but he needed the emergency team ready to take care of his boy.

Halfway to the car, Dean had stopped responding, laying boneless in his father’s arms. Had it not been for the adrenaline coursing through his veins, John would have probably panicked. But he had one objective right now: get Dean to the hospital and save his son from his own foolishness. The guilt and terror could wait until his son was in good hands.

John made it to the hospital in record time. Emergency personnel quickly helped him get Dean onto a gurney before whisking him inside. Everything felt strangely cloudy. Lost in his numbness, he heard a few words thrown around above his son: “Severe hypothermia…” “We’re losing him…” “We need to raise his temperature… Move, move, move!”

He almost lost himself to shock before regaining his composure. He needed to call the police, ideally the inspector, and concoct some lies about finding Dean. He also had to ensure the remains of Timothy Wilson were taken care of before some unlucky victim fell prey to him again.

While waiting for Dean's doctor to return, John called Paul Gardner, spinning a story about Dean having found the same pattern as the police and having made a note about the sewers in his notebook. He assured Paul that he would provide all the statements needed but that he wouldn’t leave the hospital. They could either wait for Dean to get better or come to him. All in all, the inspector pressed a bit about John running solo on this one but seemed more relieved about Dean being safe and hopefully sound than anything else.

Next, John called Caleb, who was supposed to be hunting a couple of towns away, asking him to come and take care of the ghost remains. With that done, John sank into one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room, not moving again until someone came to give him news about Dean.

It was a waiting room similar to all the ones he’d been in before, with that same clean smell mixed with antiseptics. The blemished lights cast an unflattering glow on the anxious families and friends waiting for their loved ones, making them appear even more pale. In the distance, he could hear the cries of the hurt and sick, the laughter of a nurse, the animated chatter of two janitors debating the outcome of some obscure game, and the soft voice of a caregiver assisting an old woman as she took a few tentative steps in the corridor.

John had always found hospital waiting rooms to be aggressive, with all their whiteness, cleanliness, and harsh lighting. Shouldn’t this space be more comforting? The people waiting here were the anxious loved ones of some poor girl or guy the doctors were trying to save; wouldn’t it be common decency to make sure they were at least comfortable? Dean had once told him that hospitals were uncomfortable places as a last-ditch effort to keep people from coming back. He also remembered his son saying that hospital food was their most effective strategy so far.

How many hours had he spent in waiting rooms after Dean had been hurt? How many times had he failed to protect him? Too many times, especially knowing that hospitals were the Winchester family’s last resort. Mary would be appalled to know that both her sons knew better than an ER nurse how to stitch each other back together. Sometimes, John thought she might come back from the dead just to haunt him for teaching Sam and Dean that whiskey made for a great disinfectant and worked perfectly for anesthesia… more or less.

An hour in, the inspector appeared before him, interrupting his musings.

“Sorry, but I need to ask for your statement,” Paul said gently.

“And I need to wait for my son’s doctor to come back,” John grumbled in response.

“Please, John. The son-of-a-bitch who did this to Dean could try with someone else.”

“I don’t really know what to tell you. Dean’s the one who found all the facts; I just figured out that the asshole was bringing his victims to the sewer. I couldn’t take the chance and not check it out…”

“What did you find?” Paul encouraged.

“Dean was… alone, badly beaten, and… and cold. Very, very cold. I was supposed to give him my coat, you know? I wanted to buy a new one for myself. Dean loves this old leathery thing, and I wanted to give it to him… Maybe he’d be better off if I’d done it before,” John hesitated.

“You can’t think like that, John. The man who took Dean is the only culprit here,” Paul replied firmly.

“Yeah, tell that to Miss CPS,” John shot back acidly.

“Mrs. Goldstein takes great care in her job, but she’s not inflexible. We’ll talk to her. Now I need to know, did you see anything else?”

“Not really. I was afraid the bastard would come back, and Dean couldn’t move. I took him in my arms; he didn’t even protest. He always hates it when he thinks he’s acting weak… And I carried him outside. I put 911 on my speed dial and called them as soon as I was out of the sewers, and then I was here.”

“Okay, that’s enough for now, but I will need to talk to Dean if—”

“When,” interrupted the oldest Winchester.

“When he makes it,” Paul agreed.

“I know. I’ll tell him as soon as I can.”

The minutes stretched to hours before a nurse made her way to John. “We managed to raise Dean temperature’s up. He caught a nasty case of pneumonia but nothing we can’t get under control should he make it through the next 24 hours. He’s already much better and could maybe wake up in the next few hours. Thankfully, the hypothermia didn’t made to much damage and should the sickness prevail, he’ll make it without sequels. We have put him in an ICU room for now, just to be safe and he is on oxygen but he is breathing on his own. He’ll probably feel exhausted for a while and very sore but I see no reason for you not to see him”

“Take me to him, please” was John only response.  

The whiteness of the bed sheets made Dean look even paler. He was buried underneath a warming blanket, an IV administering antibiotics to combat the pneumonia, and he appeared quite small surrounded by all the medical equipment monitoring him. But the steady beeping of his heart was the most beautiful sound John had heard in a while. Dean was safe; he would be fine. He was a fighter and wouldn’t let a simple case of pneumonia beat him. Lulled to sleep by the reassuring rhythm of his son’s heartbeat, John finally allowed himself to rest.

He was woken a few hours later by the sound of his ringing phone.

“Yeah…” he growled, still groggy.

“John, I think the ghost is coming back for Dean!”

“What?!”

“I found the grave, and I just started digging when this creepy child appeared out of nowhere! He didn’t attack me; he just disappeared again. I think he knows what’s happening, and he wants to finish his job!”

John didn’t have time to respond before he was thrown against the wall. Standing before him, rage distorting his childish face, was Timothy Wilson.

“You took Jack away! Why did you take him away? You don’t even care about him! He was all alone—mine to take!”

“He’s not Jack, son,” John tried to say, swallowing his guilt. Dean had been targeted because of him, because he had left him vulnerable.

“NO! Jack is working hard for us! He makes sure I’m happy, even if Mom left us. He brings me food and clothes, and he’s always here for me! Why did you take him?” Timothy replied, his agitation palpable.

“Is that why you’ve beaten him black and blue?” John raged back, his anger boiling over.

“He need to understand staying here will only hurt him, you will hurt him, and Sam will hurt him, but with me I’ll make sure there is no pain anymore, and will stay together forever!”

“I won’t let you !” growled the hunter, desperately trying to get out of the ghost hold

“You won’t be able to stop me once your dead, and little Sammy is already with the nice CPS lady, he doesn’t even know what’s happening. Once you’re not here, Jack will have no choice but to come to me!” replied Timothy with a victorious grin. Suddenly, John felt a grip on his throat, slowly closing his airways, cold getting to his every bone. He was getting weaker and weaker, incapable of fighting against the iron grip the ghost had on him. His vision was darkening when suddenly a shot rang out in the small room, hitting Timothy in the arm, making him flicker just enough for John to be released. The ghost began to try again, but just then, he disappeared in a blaze of flames. Caleb really had a second sense for timing.

Slowly getting up, John came face to face with his son, the pale young man still holding the gun he had used against Timothy.

“We need to talk,” said Dean, his voice deadly calm.

---

Back in 2002, Sam exclaimed, “That’s it? What happened next?”

“You know the rest of the story, Sam. The police came to see me, I gave my statement, and when we left the hospital, Dad and I had a new arrangement. Had he been there for this hunt, CPS would have never gotten even a sniff of us. I always took great care of it after the Poughkeepsie scare.”

“I remember this case. I also remember you and Dad telling me you were so sick you had passed out in your room and that’s why you weren’t able to come to the phone. And I had to stay with Mr. Paulson because you were in the hospital and I couldn’t come and see you because you were contagious or something…”

“Yeah, I told Dad not to tell you the truth. You were already really angry at him. We had to lay low once the CPS lady agreed to release you into our care, so we had to leave town quickly. I didn’t want you to give him a hard time about this whole debacle on top of that. Plus, I know you, squirt. You’d feel guilty because I’d been hurt while you were having, for once, a good time, and I didn’t want to stop you from confiding your dreams, big or small, to me. Well, we all know where that wish went…”

“But you lied to me…”

“I thought it was best at the time; sometimes even awesome big brothers get it wrong. I trust you, Sam, but you’re my little brother. I raised you. My first instinct is always to protect you, even from yourself. It doesn’t mean it’s right; it just means I love you.”

“I love you too, you jerk, but I don’t need you to lie to me anymore. I’m an adult; I should make my own choices, make my own mistakes, and my own goods. I’ll always need you, but you can’t make unilateral decisions for me, OK? Let me make bad decisions once in a while; it’s the best way for me to learn, don’t you think?”

“Hey, speaking of bad decisions, what do you think about getting some ink before college?” Dean grinned.

“What?” Sam exclaimed, outrage in his voice.

“Come on, Sammy! Chicks dig some ink, and it will make you look all rebellious and full of mystery!”

“But I don’t want to look rebellious and full of mystery,” Sam whined.

“It’ll be fun, and we’ll be connected that way. I have this great design idea I think you’ll love!”

“Dean…”

“Sammy…”

“But why?” Sam pressed.

“Because it’s fun, and let’s be honest, I’ll choose something that can be used as protection too. Please, Sam, at least for my peace of mind!”

“But I hate needles,” Sam pouted.

“Heh, it can’t be worse than Dad stitching,” Dean replied.

“Nothing is worse than Dad stitching.”

Dean marveled at his little brother, still so pure, so innocent. In 2016, they had both been through hell and back—literally—and while Dad's stitching techniques were really awful, they held no comparison to Alistair's handiwork or Lucifer's little games.

“Look, Sam, take my journal; it’s in the glove box. I put the design in it. Let me explain it to you, and then if you really don’t think it could be useful, I’ll let it go, OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Sam replied while rummaging in the compartment.

Sam opened his brother’s journal, which was quite full nowadays. While its cover looked similar to Dad’s, Dean had appropriated the content in quite a… Dean way. Notes were thrown haphazardly; in some places, Dean had rambled on for pages about a new way to kill the last supernatural thing they had encountered. Blueprints flowed freely, inserted precariously here and there. Meticulous notes on cases provided the clearest information he could find in the whole mess: names, dates, suggestions, links, and trails carefully put together. He remembered having heard Dean growl at some of their father's hunt reports; the man could be quite brief, to the endless frustration of both his sons.

On the last page was a hastily drawn design: a pentagram carefully drawn at its center, surrounded by a burning circle, the whole thing encircled by a ring of words in a language Sam didn’t recognize. It looked strange, esoteric. It looked beautiful and familiar.

“Why the pentagram?”

“Protection against demonic possession. I don’t think it will happen, but can’t be too careful…”

“We’ve never met a demon!”

“Well, yeah, but should you meet one while I’m not here, at least you won’t get possessed.”

“What about the writing? What kind of language is that?”

“Enochian, supposedly the language of the angels. All I know is it’s old as fuck and very efficient. I met this chick who had those symbols on her back; she was invisible, man. Monsters couldn’t find her. Guess it’ll help you live a normal life.”

“You serious? How come Dad doesn’t know about this? What about other hunters?”

“Hey, calm down. It’s effective when you’re not running from the things you’re literally trying to hide from, bitch.”

“How do you know this?”

“Hey, sometimes talking after sex gets you the best information…”

“Ew, Dean! TMI, seriously!”

“You asked!”

Sam looked at his brother thoughtfully. In just a couple of days, so much had changed. Dean appeared both more relaxed and tenser than ever. For the last few hours, his brother had shown him all the reasons he would miss him once at Stanford. Maybe getting the tattoo could serve both to reassure Dean that his brother would be safe and to have a part of Dean with him when the distance felt too great between them.

At their next stop, just a few miles away from Stanford, the brothers checked Sam's computer for well-recommended tattoo parlors along their route. And if Dean stayed by Sam's side while he got inked, well, no one would know. The afternoon was just starting when a sleek 1967 Impala slowly rolled through the streets of Stanford University.

To be honest, Sam hadn’t really known what to expect from his brother once they arrived at Stanford. While Dean was actually quite intelligent, he was also very used to his dumb act. But his brother had revealed himself to be quite the shark. In just a couple of hours, he had found three apartments for them to visit, gone with Sam to see all three, and negotiated sharply for the one Sam felt most at home in.

He then took Sam to the nearest secondhand store and made him buy solid furniture to furnish the house. The sofa was a bit creaky, and the chairs they had chosen for the kitchen table looked all different, but it gave Sam’s new place a homey feeling. He didn’t really understand why Dean insisted on buying a gigantic carpet or those strange things you could put against doors and windowsto prevent draught when he was in freaking California, but hey, at least someone seemed to have fun.

He understood his brother's choices better once they were home. Dean got out of Baby's trunk a huge bag of salt and began to tediously replenish the tube thingies with it. Once done, he proceeded to draw a large “demon trap,” as he called it, on the back of the carpet. Sam looked at his brother, then at his fully installed apartment, a bit stunned. Where did all this come from? Had Dean been reading home decoration books behind his back?

Dean, for his part, was quite satisfied with his handiwork. He had added some Enochian protection symbols behind the photo frames on the wall, replaced the handle of the door with a silver-covered one, and drawn a smaller demon trap on the back of Sam’s doormat. At this point, the apartment was almost as secure as Bobby’s house, and Bobby had taken great care in protecting Singer Salvage. He still felt uneasy leaving Sam behind, but his brother would be safe here and probably happier.

“Dean, thank you, really. This is great!”

“Don’t sweat it. I feel better knowing you’re in a safe place anyway. Sam, there are some rules I need you to agree to. If anything tries to get you in here or at school, call me. Put me on speed dial or something and call me. Bring a knife with you wherever you go. I know you can’t wear a gun on campus, but don’t go unarmed. You can live a normal life and still be careful. And the last rule: have fun, go to some parties, drink to oblivion once in a while, and give me some news. Maybe we could try to meet for holidays like normal families do? Just… don’t shut me out, please?”

“Of course not, Dean. You’re the most important person to me; you’re my brother! I’ll call, and you can come and see me once in a while.”

“You know I will. I won’t let you have all those college girls all to yourself! Okay, that’s enough chick flick for tonight. Let’s order some burgers, drink some beer, and watch a movie on your brand-new old TV.”

When Sam woke up in the morning, he had a dick drawn on his cheek and Dean and the Impala were gone.

Chapter Text

Alone in his car for the first time in the last 48 hours, Dean took a deep breath. He hadn't slept much last night, spending a good chunk of it making a list. He needed to send some of his old hunts to other hunters to free up time for the urgent matter at hand. Find the Colt, maybe try and replicate the thing (if Samuel Colt had been able to do it years ago, Dean could totally try it too…). He should check on Dad, pass by their old house, and go see Bobby. He also wanted to work on his future home base. Chuck only knew when Henry Winchester would show up with the key this time, so no Bunker for him right now. The next best thing was to build his own. He had finally decided to put it near the Bunker's location, so Lebanon, Kansas, here he comes. That way, should he ever move back in, it would be easier, and the house would make for a nice secondary location. That and the small city was quite literally at the center of the country.

He also wanted to get some of his post-2005 hunts out of the way. He needed to check on the White Lady, the Wendigo in Black Water Ridge, and probably do something about the drowned child in the lake. He couldn't remember the name of the place, but the name "Evan" was etched in his memory. There was the Rougarou, and the various vampire nests and pagan gods they'd encountered over the years. He remembered the priest who thought he was an angel, and Dana Shulps, the girl and the farmer on the highway. He needed to look into the strange but ordinary cases too – the children in the walls and the crazy-as-hell family who thought hunting humans was a hobby. He should probably check on those ghouls before they took over Kate and Adam. Actually, checking on Adam was a top priority. No way was he letting one brother get dragged into the hunting mess when he had just gotten one out!

Either way, he had a lot of work piled up for the coming weeks, but nothing too pressing. Lebanon was going to be his first stop. He had a lot of ideas for making his future home as safe as it could be. For all he had teased Sam about becoming a real Man of Letters, he too had spent hours thinking about it. Plus, while his body was young, his mind was old and clearly insisted on a comfy bed, a nice sofa, and a real kitchen.

---

The small city of Lebanon was slowly drowning in the darkness of the falling night when the softly glowing light of the lamp posts reflected on the glistening bodywork of a 1967 Chevy Impala. A curious soul looked out at the dark car and the stranger riding in it. The man looked young, a ray of light briefly caught in his green eyes, and a dusting of freckles was thrown in a random pattern under heavy dark circles. The small city was, well, small, and it wasn't very usual for a stranded stranger to cross its path. And so that night, the newcomer attracted the glances of the inhabitants of the small suburban city.

Dean was miles away from pondering the people of Lebanon's reaction to his arrival. The road had been long, and he was tired. He couldn't wait for the hot shower waiting for him at the nearest motel. Tomorrow he would start searching for a house, hopefully one with some restructuring work to do that he could make into a safe haven for him, his family, and his friends. Alone on the trip, he almost started to pray to Castiel. It was an odd little habit he had picked up over the years. His angel best friend had been a constant in his life for years now, and since that first hesitant prayer he had thrown at the angel just after hell, he sometimes sent a prayer to the man. At first, they were desperate pleas, cries from his tortured soul, and demands, so many demands. When he had first met Cas, he had always been so demanding, always calling the angel when confronted with the seemingly insurmountable obstacles life kept throwing at him. Through the trials they'd endured, he'd begun to see the angel as family. And when he'd thought Cas lost to Purgatory, he had started sending small prayers, recounting his day, throwing in a comment about the movie he was watching, the food he'd been eating, the last prank he'd played on Sam... Praying to Castiel had been like tossing a bottle into the sea, with that gnawing hope it would reach his friend.

So yeah, alone in his car, Dean had wanted to pray. He had wanted Cas by his side on the road. But he couldn't do this to his friend. Cas didn't even know him right now. He was still a good soldier, a respectable seraph, admired by his brothers and sisters, his Grace intact.

And Dean realized then that he had lost more than he thought with this second chance. He couldn't bring Castiel back into his shit. The first time around, the angel had lost everything to the Winchesters' Quest. For his best friend to be back, he'd have to rebel again, go against his family, and fall. No way was Dean going to let that happen. Castiel deserved so much more. And so, for all his family to be safe, Dean would have to fight alone. It was a small sacrifice for all of them to make it to the end of the line.

---

Dean had spent a tumultuous night in a random motel room, trying to catch up on some sleep. He woke up before the sun, a scream on his lips, sweaty and disoriented. Quickly renouncing any hope of more sleep, he showered and set out on a quest to find some coffee. The waitress at the small restaurant he found smiled at him, all motherly, which, considering she was younger than his real age, was a bit strange. But hey…

“What can I get you, hun’?”

“Coffee, black, and pie if you have some, please.”

“We do, actually—apple pie for the young man.”

“Can you give me some info too?”

“What do you need, sweetie?”

Okay, the nicknames were starting to get really weird. Dean wasn’t usually the one to awaken motherly instincts in women. That was more Sam’s territory with his puppy eyes. Women looked at Dean and either saw a charming one-night stand, a small delinquent, or a rude bastard. Don’t get him wrong; he had learned to play on his skills, but this woman clearly saw something else. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes? Well, he still needed that information…

“Do you know if there are any properties for sale around here?”

“A few, yes. People don’t want to stay here; they all want to go to the big cities. You should check the real estate agency a few streets from here. I know they have some great deals.”

Dean made small talk for a few more minutes, then drowned his coffee, inhaled his pie, and got up.

The real estate agency was small, and Dean shuddered a bit, remembering the leviathan that had once hidden as a crazy and bitchy agent. Hopefully, he wouldn’t end up dead before the end of the day, he thought sarcastically. The encounter went well. Dean had used the skills both Ash and Charlie had taught him to create credible papers under the name Dean Campbell. He had also took the time to set up a bank account under the same name. The man who received him was professional— not overly friendly, but helpful nonetheless. Dean provided his criteria, and soon found himself with a few propositions and planned visits for the same afternoon. As the waitress had told him, people tended to flee to the big cities nowadays; small towns like Lebanon had almost as many houses for sale as houses occupied.

To pass the time before the visits, Dean did some research on his brand-new computer. He had found a student at Stanford who wanted to get rid of it to upgrade to a newer model. The thing was old and a bit beaten up, but it ran smoothly for its venerable age. Dean had tinkered a bit with the machine to help it along, even setting it up the way Charlie had taught him. While he would never be a hacker on her level, he had acquired a few skills over the years with a little help from Ash, Frank, and the little sister he never knew he needed.

The Lady in White was already active, and thus had risen a few ranks on his list. So had the Wendigo. There were also a few cases he had tackled before going to Stanford that he needed to address. Should he find a property to his liking that afternoon, he planned to do some work on it and then embark on his first hunting trip through the country to handle the active cases he could remember and find.

That afternoon, the real estate agent took Dean to four different places, but he knew the third one was his as soon as he saw it. It was an old and cranky house, with a small barn he was already planning to transform into a garage for his baby. The structure seemed to stand up by will alone, and Dean almost recognized himself in those sturdy walls, weathered by time and trials. A small porch promised a resting place to drink beer with Sam under the stars, and the state of the house announced a price on the range of what Dean could afford. He could see himself staying here, resting in this place. Plus he had enough terrain to apply the good lesson of one Samuel Colt. After all, canalization ran underground and nobody would be the wiser if Dean made his water travel a “specific” way. And all the work needed on the walls, doors and windows was a safe way to insert salt and silver everywhere he could. This house was going to be the safest place on earth against the supernatural. What definitely sealed the deal was the cellar. Apparently cellars weren’t too common around here but the house had one, and quite large at that, and Dean was already making it into his own safe room. Hey, maybe he’ll even make Bobby jealous with the thing. He was already envisioning a workshop and stuff for spells and weapons carefully put away on the walls, easy to reach, yet protected from elements.

The next day Dean was the proud new owner of the house.

A few months later:

John Winchester had been running all around the country trying to forget his last conversation with his sons. He loved his boys fiercely, but he was enough of a man to recognize he hadn’t been the best father for them. Sam had been lucky Dean had taken up the slack, but his eldest had to grow too fast and had essentially become Sammy’s parent. It wasn’t surprising Dean had defended the boy so fiercely; he had basically raised his brother. Still, coming from his usually almost too obedient son, the rebellion had perturbed John. And he had run. He hadn’t heard much from his sons since he left them in that motel a few states away from Stanford. He knew Sam had made it to school and had checked on the boy from afar. He looked happy and well integrated.

From Dean, he only knew what rumors and hunter gossip counted this day. Last time he had heard about him had been at the Roadhouse when some young hunter had been sprouting a ridiculous tale about his son going one-on-one with a Wendigo and killing the beast without even sweating. Lately, there had been stories about his boy going all around after monsters by himself, and it worried John to no end. His son knew better than to hunt alone. He himself had done so out of other options, but he had made sure to raise his boys differently. They were supposed to do better, be better, and protect each other. But Sam was at school, and John had run away, so who was watching Dean’s back? He should call him; he really should. Let his pride aside and call his boy before he did something stupid.

But first, he needed to check on Kate and Adam; he had promised the boy he would go and watch his soccer game. Maybe he could call a few of his hunter buddies on the way to make some inquiries about his eldest. With this thought, John started his truck and hit the road. He had always loved driving. Dean had gotten that from him—this love for the never-ending road extending to the horizon, the freedom their car offered. On his first stop, he’d call Bobby.

A few hours later, as the sun had long hidden away, John's truck made its way through the parking lot of a cheap-looking motel. Throwing his duffel bag over one shoulder, he soon registered himself for the night. Once secure in a room, with salt on the windows and a gun under his pillow, he dialed Bobby Singer's phone number. A few tones in, a gruff voice answered.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s John, Bobby,” he sighed on the phone.

“Winchester? How long has it been?” answered the older man.

“Probably since you raised your gun on me, you sneaky son of a bitch,” growled John. “Hey, I recall it was well deserved,” was the sarcastic reply.

“Yeah, well…” replied the oldest Winchester, all wind taken out of his sails.

“So? What can I do for the infamous John Winchester?”

“I… have you heard from Dean lately?” he hesitated.

“Yeah, let me tell you, that boy of yours is one cocky bastard…” sighed Bobby.

“Oh God, what has he done now?”

“Oh, don’t worry; it was a compliment… well, mostly.”

“What do you mean?”

“That boy came to see me a few weeks ago. He wanted some intel on a hunter and to check a few spells from my collection. He also asked for advice on protection seals and wards, and on construction of all things. He was well enough, looked a bit roughed up, but he justified himself by telling me he was just coming back from hunting vampires. I thought those damn things were extinct for God’s sake!”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Well, yeah, and he had the nerve to laugh at me and told me I was naïve. Naïve!”

“Do you know who went with him?”

“As far as I know, he was alone. But listen, John, I know you’ve raised those boys to survive come hell or high water, but how the hell was your son able to battle off an entire nest of those bloodsucker bastards by himself? What have you been teaching them, you crazy son of a bitch?” “Bobby, I thought Elkins and his merry group of hunters had reduced vampires to the verge of extinction. I didn’t even tell Dean or Sam for that matter how to kill them… He must be hunting with someone else…”

“No, John, I’m pretty sure he was alone.”

“Why?”

“Because you know me. If some youngster comes to tell me they hunted a nest of vampires all by themselves, I check the info, okay? Even if I helped raise said boy. There wasn’t a lot to go on, but Dean saved two young girls when he was there. The police made the report; they said it was some cult. It even made the news. Apparently, your son didn’t stay long enough for them to ask questions or take a picture, but…”

“Wait, I remember this story. It was all over the news a few weeks ago. Some guy saved two people and ran away before he could be thanked for his noble act. One of the girls was even interviewed and said that even if their savior didn’t want to be known, he wouldn’t be forgotten.” “Yeah, well, notice how they said it was one savior?”

“Maybe they didn’t see the other guy…”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

John sighed. What had Dean gotten himself into this time? He knew his son was a good hunter. And in a few years, he’d probably be one of the best. But he was still a twenty-something years old running all around the country, a bit too cocky, a bit too sure of himself. For all the childhood he didn’t have, Dean was still young. No way in hell should he be running on his own after vampires. He needed to find his boy as soon as possible and knock some sense into his head.

“John? You still there?”

“Yeah, Bobby, I am.”

“Listen, Dean has been doing quite well for himself lately. I’ve had hunters singing his praises all around, some pestering after him too. He’s making a name in our community, and it’s going to make him noticeable on radars you really don’t want him to be.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you do, but John, I told the same thing to Dean. I don’t think he meant to answer this way, but he told me it was probably a good thing, that it would make his plan run smoother?”

“What?”

“He closed up after that, so I don’t know anything else, but he promised to keep in touch and to call me should things get too hot for him.”

“I need to find him, Bobby.”

“He told me he has a home base now, didn’t tell me where though. But I also know he was looking for hunts in Minnesota, so maybe start here. And call him, you stubborn bastard.”

“I will, I just need to get something done while on the way.”

“John…” hesitated the older hunter.

“What do you want from me, Bobby?”

“Nothing, just… call me when you have him.”

“You know I will.”

“Do I?”

“Shut up, old man…” grumbled John, ending the call before his friend could reply. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow he’d be with Adam.

When his truck rolled in front of the Milligan’s house, a strange feeling ran along his back, like the freezing breath of a winter wind. The neighborhood looked no different than the last time he came, with its quiet little houses carefully ordered around the street, neat gardens almost supernaturally green. It was a beautiful day, and nothing seemed to disturb the calm of a sunny Sunday. Nothing but the feeling engraving itself in his gut.

Pulling over, he slowly grabbed his gun and made his way to the door, trying to look as normal as possible. From afar, he could hear children playing and laughing. A dog barked a few streets over. Nothing should have put his nerves on alert like they were, but he couldn’t shake off the uneasiness rising in his whole body, shouting at him that something was about to go really wrong. Raising his hand to reach the handle, he tried to open the door. It wasn’t closed.

Hesitantly, he said, “Kate? Adam? You there?” but nothing but silence answered his call. Raising his gun, he made his way through the house. It looked undisturbed, everything still in place, but empty. Surprisingly, the living room was drowned in shadows. The curtains had been cautiously closed off, and a strange lump buried under covers was lying on the couch.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, John discretely approached the unmoving lump. There was no movement from the couch, just the steady rising up and down of breathing. Whatever was hiding under the pile of blankets looked to be deeply asleep. John was about to uncover the thing when the familiar shape of a cannon tingled his back, and he froze.

“Don’t move,” grunted a strangely familiar voice.

“Who are you?” replied John, trying to keep his voice steady, hands rising slowly.

“Who I am? Who are you, you bastard? This is private property, man!” slurred his assailant.

“Dean!” exclaimed a feminine voice. “What are you doing up! I told you to rest for God’s sake!”

“Dean?!” interrupted John, turning around brusquely

“Dean!” exclaimed happily a young and recognizable voice. Surging from the blankets Adam jumped to his son. Because that was his eldest, standing here precariously, looking a bit worse for the wear and slightly at loss when the young boy went for a hug.

“The fuck is happening here…” growled John

“That’s a good question actually, what day is it ?” asked Dean non plussed.

“Dean, it’s Sunday and you’re supposed to be sleeping. John, sorry, I forgot you were coming today. We had a strange week. Now could one of you tell me how you know each other?” said Kate, her voice laced with a hint of annoyance, hands on her hips, looking quite unimpressed at both men standing in her living room.

John searched for a good answer. When they had first met, he'd been a bit delirious, calling her Mary a few times. They'd discussed it later, and she knew he was a widower, that he'd lost his wife to something lurking in the night. But he'd never told her about his boys. He'd taken great care to separate both his lives. While he loved his sons fiercely, both he and they had been tainted by that November night. He couldn't let the same thing happen to Kate and Adam. He was still searching for a good answer when Dean intervened.

“We are on the same line of work; we met a few times along the years…”

His answer surprised John. Why had Dean lied? What did he know, and why the hell was he here? What kind of screwed up coincidence was this? The answer seemed to surprise Kate too, which meant she hadn't known Dean was a hunter. So why had she opened her home to him? Had his son somehow known Adam was his half-brother and had said so to the Milligans? But no, Kate hadn't reacted when Dean had said they had just met a few times for work. So what then? And why was it still so dark in here?

While some light was coming from the door Kate had opened when she entered, the curtains had been kept closed, and no one had bothered to open them or turn on the lights. The room felt heavy, the silence punctuated only by the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. For the first time since the start of their conversation, John took a good look at his son. Dean was pale, his rumpled clothes suggesting he'd been sleeping in the pants and T-shirt he was wearing. Heavy dark circles lingered under his eyes, indicating that whatever rest he'd managed hadn't been enough to shake off the exhaustion wearing him down. His eyes were unfocused, too, suggesting a concussion. That would explain the slurred tone and sluggish movement. If Dean had been in full possession of his faculties, John wouldn't have been able to get the drop on him. Turning around as brusquely as he had done should have at least gotten him kicked down for his trouble.

Exasperated, John finally exclaimed, "I don't get it, Dean! Why the fu... Why are you here of all places? And what is this sorry state you're in, boy? I taught you better than that!"

The room froze. Dean, looking partly exasperated, partly defeated, shifted his weight slightly. Kate's eyebrows shot up towards the ceiling, and little Adam, almost trembling behind Dean's precarious stand, clutched at his shirt. And John new right there and then he had made a mistake.

Adam, still clinging to Dean, watched the adults with a frown. He didn't understand the tense atmosphere, the way everyone seemed to be holding their breath. He tried to hide behind Dean, seeking comfort in his reassuring presence. Dean had saved him! He'd taken care of him, helped him get back to his Mom. Why was Dad looking so angry at him? Maybe he should explain that Dean was good, a hero! He was twelve, almost an adult, but still, his father reaction had afraid him a bit. He hadn’t know Dad could be so gruff, so terrifying. He felt a pang of sadness for Dean, who seemed weary and a bit sad himself. He wished he understood what was going on. He wished he could make things better. Maybe he should explain

“Dean saved me! But he was hurt, so Mom took him home to help him get better…” he tried hesitantly.

“Saved ? Saved from what?” asked John more calmly.

“Well, that’s where the long week comes in… Dean, you should at least sit down please,” sighed Kate.

“Yeah, you know what, if no one's about to drop dead, I'm going back to sleep." Replied the young hunter

“Dean no…” tried to say John.

“Dean yes,” Kate interrupted. “I think I can explain what happened, I’m a big girl after all. Dean already did enough, and it’s both my medical advice and preemptive to say he needs rest.”

Dean looked victorious, a contemptuous smile on his lips as Kate shut down his father. He smiled at Adam, "Well, let's leave the adults to their boring talk. There's a bed with my name on it, and a movie you promised you'd watch with me!"

“Dude, it's my bed, with my name, I just let you sleep here because Mom was worried for your back.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling that to yourself… Come on squirt, let's go.”

John watched his sons leave, a bitter feeling churning in his stomach. He'd never doubted his decision to keep the Milligans out of the hunting life, but seeing Dean and Adam bond so easily, he regretted it a bit. He'd deprived his boys of this connection. Turning away from him, Kate went to the curtains, sighing heavily as she opened them. The outside light flooded the living room, bathing it in a warm glow. She put away the blankets Adam had dropped when he'd jumped to hug Dean. Then she sat down, looking expectantly at John. He followed suit, feeling abashed. Here he was, in his old lover's living room, after almost jumping his youngest son, after shouting at his oldest. And Kate looked so tired. Maybe it was her job; being a nurse was hard work. Or maybe it was because of whatever had happened during the past week? Either way, John had that awful feeling he'd just dumped an even heavier load on the poor woman's back.

"So? Why is Dean here?"

"I'll explain, if you promise you'll tell me the truth too."

“About what?"

"I'm not stupid, John. Nor as obvious as you'd like me to be. That boy is definitely not just another random hunter you've met once or twice in a blue moon. I'll tell you what happened, you tell me your real relationship with him. We clear?"

"Yeah, ok, we're clear," replied the oldest Winchester, his voice laced with reluctance.

"You know," Kate started, "ever since our little adventure with the ghouls, I sometimes forget real monsters aren't the only thing we should worry about out there. There are accidents, drunk drivers, storms, fires, and diseases. There are freaks too, crazy people who don't need to be monsters to act like ones. And I work in a hospital, I've seen pain and misery, and all the bad stuff humans are capable of doing to each other. But somehow, I had forgotten it could happen to me too. I don't know why; maybe I thought after being touched by the supernatural, regular freakiness couldn't touch me anymore. A few weeks ago, there was a report about a boy about Adam's age who had been kidnapped. They even used the new Amber Alert system, but it didn't work. They found the body two weeks later. And yeah, it worried me, but... but then I got a call from Adam's teacher, and..." Kate interrupted herself, trembling softly, her knuckles whitening. Spontaneously, John covered her hands with his, reassuringly, nodding at her encouragingly to continue. She took a deep breath and continued.

"The teacher told me they were coming to the hospital. The guy who tried to kidnap Adam had been stopped, but someone got hurt trying to protect my boy. When they got there, Adam was in this guy I had never met before's arms, a young adult, green eyes, freckles everywhere and blood dripping from his head. His flannel shirt was all dirty and he looked way too exasperated at the agitation around him despite his wounds." She smiled at John, who chuckled at the vivid description. "Yeah, this sounds like someone he knows," he said, his eyes filled with a mixture of amusement and concern. Kate continued, “A paramedic tried to pry Adam away, but he clung to the guy, his arms wrapped tight, his voice trembling as he whispered, 'Don't leave me.' One of my colleagues recognized Adam and told me to come over, that they needed access to their patient, that they couldn’t do their work with Adam refusing to let go of him. So I came over, and the movement must have alerted Adam’s savior because suddenly he focused on me, murmured something to Adam, then despite the protestations of everyone around, he made his way to me and carefully detached my octopus of son from him and delicately deposited him at my side. He just said, 'Here's your mom, kid,' then dropped down like a mass.” 

Kate stopped talking, took a deep breath, then added, “Everything went into overdrive. They rushed the guy away to treat his injuries, and I hurried after Adam to make sure he was okay. The police came by later to tell me what happened and to gather some information from Adam. Apparently, he was on his way home when a van pulled up beside him. A man leaned out and started talking to him. Adam tried to run away, but the man grabbed his arm and attempted to pull him into the van. The police said Adam bit the man and tried to escape, but the man pursued him.

They didn’t know the name of the person who helped our boy. It was Adam who told us his name was Dean. When Adam tried to flee from the guy, Dean was the one who intervened. That s.o.b. threw a nasty punch at Dean, but he didn’t budge. I don’t know where he learned to fight, but he was strong enough to stop the kidnapper’s assault.”

John couldn’t help but think, quite uncharitably, that Dean had better not have gotten his ass handed to him by some wannabe kidnapper. But then again, his eldest had saved Adam, and he had gotten hurt in the process. Maybe he should be a bit kinder to the boy… Either way, it didn’t explain what his son was doing at the Milligan’s house.

“Why is he here then?” he asked Kate.

“Well, when he woke up, he was quite adamant he wanted to be discharged. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone obtain the AMA forms as quickly before. I think he exploded your record, actually,” she chuckled. “Anyway, I couldn’t just let him leave like that, so I asked him to at least get some rest here before going back on the road. He accepted when I threw Adam and his puppy eyes at him. Your turn now. Who is he really?”

“Dean is… His name is Dean Michael Winchester. He’s my son. My eldest, actually. I told you about Mary, my wife. Before her death, we had two sons. Dean was born in January 1979, and Sam in May 1983. He’s at Stanford right now, studying pre-law. Dean followed me into the family business. I hadn’t heard from him these last few months. We… we had a fight and… well, I never thought I’d meet him here of all places.”

Meanwhile, Dean had settled Adam against him, burying them both under the soft cover of his little brother's comforter. On the TV, Jim Hawkins was on his quest to find Treasure Planet, but Dean's thoughts were miles away from the R.L.S. Legacy equipage tribulations. His father was downstairs. How could he have been so stupid? Of course, his luck would ensure he met his dad at the worst possible time.

While he had told Bobby the truth about the hunts in Minnesota, his real reason for being there was to check on his half-brother. He would have never guessed they’d meet under such dire circumstances. When he saw that creep gripping the little boy, he threw caution to the wind and jumped into the situation. Despite working hard to get into tip-top shape, the guy had been huge and knew how to use his size to his advantage. Dean had finally knocked the guy out, but he still took a few good shots, resulting in bruised ribs and a nasty concussion for his trouble.

He probably wouldn’t have (manly) fainted if he hadn’t been running around to reassure Adam and protect him from the well-meaning but a bit too invasive paramedics. Adam had been a bit reluctant at first, but with a few comforting words from Dean, he had wrapped his arms around him, crying all the tears he could muster. They talked softly, Dean ushering nonsensical promises all the way to the hospital until he found the kid's mom and quite literally dropped Adam on her lap before letting darkness take over.

By his side, the kid was snoring soflty. All the emotion of the last few days had exhausted him. Dean would have loved to slip in Morpheus arms too, but he felt to exposed here. His little home project was going well, and he missed his home when vulnerable like he currently was. Maybe he could convince Kate to do a bit of remodelling? Ask Dad to help him convince her? If his father didn’t shoot him first tough. He was trying to make an escape plan when someone softly knocked on the door.

“I think we need to talk, son…” said John.