N.B.: Most of my stories have been from Dean's or Cass's point of view, so I thought I'd even things up by making one from mostly Sam's point of view. Balance the scales, right?

1 – I'll Be Damned

For what must have been the millionth time, Sam wondered what it would be like to have a normal life. Of course, it probably didn't help that he was checking his hair in the mirror of a run down bar, trying to see if he had any bits of ghoul in it. This was one of those nights when Dean got a little machete happy.

That also brought back his wish of having a normal brother, and that too was a pipe dream. But did he have any right to even think that? He was the one with iffy psychic powers and the whole demon blood thing. Where did he get off requesting normal from anyone?

He washed some stray blood spatters off his face – they were probably hidden by his hair, so that was a plus – and returned to the bar proper.

It was run down and shabby in a way that many hipster bars tried to emulate but could never quite manage with this level of authenticity. There was Hank Williams on the jukebox and peanut shells on the floor, and it was so dense with shadows there could have been several ghosts here, and they'd be the last to know. It was also the only bar in a place called Fremont, Nevada, a mirage of a town near the California border. Why a few ghouls decided to go on a minor killing spree here was anyone's guess, but it wasn't a problem anymore, as he and Dean had cleared out the nest. Although ghouls nesting was a weird thing. But apocalypse, right? Everything was weird.

How long had he been in the bathroom? Maybe four minutes, tops, but Dean was already chatting up a pretty, dark haired woman at the bar, who body language suggested she was totally into him. How Dean could be a total, transparent lothario and yet still charm women like he was Brad Pitt was beyond Sam. And he absolutely didn't want to be a third wheel while his brother scored. That was just a million kinds of gross and sad.

As it was, Sam was kind of tired, and felt he needed a shower. Decapitating ghouls in graveyards had a tendency to leave him feeling dirty, whether he was or not.

He gulped down the dregs of his beer as the woman laughed at whatever Dean said, and Dean looked at him curiously, flirty smile fading. "You headed out?"

"Yeah. I'm beat." He put down his empty bottle and glanced at the woman, whose eyes were pretty much glued to Dean. She was way hotter than this bar deserved, and it figured she'd gravitate towards Dean, or he'd gravitate towards her. However it went. "Should I take the car?"

Dean nodded, and clapped him on the back. He knew he was giving him time and space to operate, without his little brother in the vicinity. "Why not?" He tossed him the keys, and added needlessly, quietly, "Don't wait up."

Yeah, he already figured that out for himself. Sam draped his coat over his arm (it was still too warm to wear, no matter the fact that it was a quarter to one in the morning), and he left Dean and the hottie flirting back and forth at the bar, like they were the only two people in the world. Must have been nice.

Sam was actually glad to get out in the fresh air, although he still wasn't used to the unseasonable warmth. Since they were essentially on the edge of a desert, you'd think the night would be cold, but nope, not tonight.

It wasn't a long way back to the motel, just a few blocks, and Sam paused in the parking lot and looked up, hoping to see stars. But they seemed faint and hard to see, even though they were far from the light pollution of Las Vegas. Sam felt depression just edging into his thoughts, and he tried to ignore it, but some nights it was harder than others, and this was one of them.

He knew Dean's solution to it was to repress and get massively wasted, and it was great it worked for him. It never worked that way for Sam. Sometimes you could sense the end of the world around the corner, and it was impossible to ignore. It was a weight that threatened to crush him where he stood, and he didn't have Dean's have reflexive denial to help him. He just had to look at it face on, and despair quietly, so no one ever knew.

What he wouldn't give for a time where everything wasn't so fucked up. Or even Dean's ability to pretend doom wasn't falling down right on top of them.

Back in their motel room, he showered away the scent of blood, and went right to bed, even though he considered breaking open Dean's bottle of whiskey or fishing out the emergency beer he kept chilling in the toilet tank. (Did Dean still think he didn't know about that? He'd been doing that since he was a teenager.) But Sam just felt the crushing weight of it all, and knew drinking wouldn't help. There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to make it go away. So the soft oblivion of sleep was all he could hope for. He just hoped tonight, he didn't have any nightmares.

When Sam woke up from a relatively dreamless sleep (there was one, involving Lucifer of course, but all he could remember about it was a sense of terrifying dread), he instantly thought something was wrong, but it took him a minute or two to figure out what. He was alone in the small, tacky motel room.

This was a given, of course, as Dean wouldn't bring his conquest back here. But a glance at the room's '70's era alarm clock confirmed he was right to be worried. It was ten thirty. Dean was usually back by now. He usually got out of those places first things. It was like he was allergic to cuddling or something. Afraid a woman would demand he call her tomorrow?

Sam went ahead and took a shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, figuring Dean would come bumbling in the door any second, ruining his peace. But it didn't happen. Huh.

He called him as he packed up, but his call went straight to Dean's voice mail. "Don't tell me you didn't get out of there before her husband came back. Where the hell are you, dude?" He was guessing the woman last night had been married, but she'd definitely been something. Women that pretty usually didn't hang out in bars that divey, unless they had some issues. But he knew Dean would say he had issues, which was true, so they were probably perfect together.

Sam packed up Dean's stuff, which wasn't hard, as he'd hardly unpacked. But he got annoyed as he threw Dean's bag in the car, and called him again. Still he went to voice mail. "Okay, this is getting ridiculous. Call me."

There was a diner across the street, and Sam went there to get coffee and some breakfast, figuring Dean would join him there. Like he'd ever miss a meal.

But Sam was half way through his egg white omelet when he realized he could ignore it no longer. Something was wrong. Dean should have been back by now, or at least should have called him.

He accessed Dean's phone GPS, and discovered he was about a quarter of a mile away. He hastily finished his breakfast and took off, driving the Impala out there with the intention of throwing him in the trunk if he absolutely had to. It wasn't even noon, and it was topping eighty degrees already. He wanted to get somewhere else, where the sun didn't punish you for existing.

The GPS led him to a wide alley between two shut down shops. The whole street was deserted, as this was apparently the part of town the economic downturn hit the hardest. Were any of the shops on this street open? They didn't seem to be. This was the ghost town portion of Fremont. "Dean?" he said, getting out of the car. His bad feeling from earlier intensified, and he pulled his gun as he cautiously edged up to the alley. A million potential scenarios suddenly sped through his mind, and the first one that jumped out was "she wasn't human". The woman at the bar? Both he and Dean were suckered into thinking she was something she wasn't. And as soon as she got Dean alone …

No. He wasn't going to finish that thought until he absolutely had to. Besides, Dean was basically the Terminator, right? He found a way to fight his way through shit. His brother was a total pain in the ass, but you could never discount his fighting skills. Sam spent much of his childhood alternately in awe of it and terrified of it. Dean could go dark side really fast in a fight.

As far as Sam could tell, the alley was empty, save for a small Dumpster and a few dented trash cans. Sam called Dean's number, and heard the guitar riff of his ringtone. He had a suddenly nauseous feeling he was going to throw open the Dumpster and find Dean's body in it, covered in blood and wounded in some hideous ways, but as he got closer, he realized the sound was coming from under the Dumpster.

Sam took a look inside, just in case, but there was no body in it, just garbage. Crouching down, he did find Dean's cell, kicked under the little bit of clearance afforded by the Dumpster's wheels. He grabbed it and pulled it out, intending to see what the last call from it was – had he realized he was in trouble? – when he saw a bit of a cocktail napkin sticking out of the battery hatch.

Sam took a quick look around to make sure he was still alone before holstering his gun and popping the hatch.

There was a single word scrawled on the napkin, in a messy, rushed hand that was still clearly Dean's writing: Maldad.

Sam puzzled over that for a second. Was it a mistake? Because as far as he knew, that was the Spanish word for wickedness or malice, and Dean only knew enough Spanish to order tacos or beer. But the word scratched at his memory. It was familiar somehow.

He went back to the car and called Bobby, telling him about Dean's missing status, and the weird word he found hidden in his abandoned phone. "This doesn't sound good," Bobby said, with his usual amount of understatement. "Do you think you can find the woman?"

"Only if she returns to the bar tonight. I'll go quiz the bartender, but I wouldn't be surprised if that was the first time she stopped in that place."

"You think it was a deliberate grab?"

Sam nodded out of habit, and spied himself in the rearview mirror. Stupid. "She knew exactly how to catch Dean off guard."

"She knew how to catch men off guard," Bobby corrected. "Dean ain't the only one whose brain flies out his head when he spies a hot woman."

"Yeah. But Dean's not easy to get in a vulnerable spot. If she was a typical monster making a grab, Dean would have come home with blood on his shirt. Somehow he couldn't get away, but he had time to leave a message, knowing I'd get it." This didn't paint a great picture. If he could leave a note, why couldn't Dean get away?

"Could maldad stand for something in particular?"

"What, like a nickname?"

"Yeah." Sam heard noise in the background as Bobby shuffled through some books. "Maybe that's monster shorthand."

Sam suddenly recalled where he heard the name before, and gasped. "Maldad, California. Bobby, it's a town."

"It is? I've never heard of it."

"It's about thirty miles from Stanford. I remember Dean telling me once he was going to take care of something there while Dad was busy hunting wendingos with Jose in the Sierra Nevadas." It was so many years ago now, but it felt like several lifetimes. It was … what, six years ago? Maybe seven.

Bobby snorted. "Gotta better memory than me, kid. I don't remember that at all. Except that whole wendigo thing. Isn't that where Jose lost his finger?"

"I think so. It was also one of the last time I talked to Dean before I went to college." He didn't see Dean again until that night he broke into his place to tell him Dad had gone missing. Sam knew that was mostly his fault.

Considering how many years they'd been each other's constant companions, it was weird to think that there was a time when he and Dean didn't talk to each other. But there had been, and in retrospect, he realized how dickish he was to Dean. But God, the lack of family drama had been like a vacation from life. He had so many good memories from that part of things. He'd almost been like everyone else.

Sam had just been so mad at their father, and he lumped Dean in with him, even though it wasn't fair. He really thought he had a chance at a normal life. If only Dad had told him or Dean about the whole demon blood thing, Sam would have known how pointless that all was. But Dad never told him, and everything played out as the tragedy it was bound to become.

"What's the connection?" Bobby asked, shaking him out of his reverie.

"What?"

"Between Maldad and Fremont?"

That was a very good question. Sam wished he had an answer for him.

Eight Years Ago

Dean was wondering if he'd oversalted the potatoes when the argument began.

Sam finally broke the news to Dad that he'd applied to and been accepted by Stanford, and Dean knew that was going to go over like a lead balloon. Somehow things had gone from tense quiet to each of them trying to out shout the other at mach speed.

They'd both gotten up from the table and took their fight into the living room, leaving Dean to sit there and finish his meal. He was hungry, so he had a couple of bites, but the food congealed to concrete in his stomach, so he got up and started clearing dishes off the table. It was unlikely they'd be back to eat after this.

Dean was trying to tune out the argument as he scraped the food into the garbage. He had mixed feelings about Sam trying to lead an ordinary life, away from hunting, but ultimately he thought it was for the best. One of them should get a chance at a normal life, right? He'd done his best to keep Sam's childhood intact as much as he could, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. But he knew he didn't want to do this for his entire life, Sam was miserable, and the kindest thing they could do was let him walk away and try to be a civilian. Dean had really hoped their Dad would agree, especially with the recent werewolf fiasco up in Twin Falls. But clearly Dad didn't feel that way.

Dean grabbed a beer from the fridge and shotgunned it as the argument continued. "Don't you dare put that on me," Dad yelled.

"You never gave us a choice!" Sam shouted back. Dean grabbed a second beer and wandered out to the living room, to see how this argument was progressing. He was really glad Mason and Geena weren't here. While it was beyond generous of a hunting couple to let them borrow their place while they were away, it still felt weird to Dean to be back in a house again. He'd gotten used to cheap motels and hunting cabins. "You just assumed we'd want to take part in your obsessed crusade!"

Dean winced at the choice of words, and sat on the couch. "Guys, hey," he snapped, knowing from past experience it wouldn't work. When they were both in high dudgeon, nothing could circumvent them. It didn't stop Dean from trying. "Can we discuss this like fucking adults?"

"You," his Dad snapped, turning his angry eyes on him. "You knew he was doing this, didn't you? Why didn't you stop him?"

Even though Dean still believed it had been the right thing, seeing his Dad furious at him made him cringe inside. He just wanted to make him happy, make him proud of him, but Dean was beginning to think that he might never be good enough for him.

"Leave Dean out of this," Sam exclaimed, stepping into Dad's line of sight. "I am an adult, and I made my choice."

"You're acting like a child," Dad snapped. "You'll be a target if you go out there alone."

Sam scoffed. "Wow, you're full of yourself, aren't you? You figure every monster on the planet knows the Winchester name, and will drop everything and come running to Stanford to take me out? Please."

"Guys," Dean said, once again knowing this was pointless. He really didn't want Sam to go. He'd spent so much of his life looking after him, he didn't know if there actually was a Dean without a Sam. But it was better for Sam, and he wanted to go. If he could actually have a normal life, he should. Dean would manage. He always managed.

"Do you even care about your family, you selfish moron?" Dad replied.

Dean winced at the choice of words. Dad probably regretted it as soon as it was out of his mouth, but there was no taking it back now.

Sam let out a mirthless laugh. "Me, selfish? Coming from you, that's almost a compliment."

"Sammy, don't –" Dean began.

Sam whirled on him, and said, "Don't you dare defend him, Dean."

Dean stared up at Sam, his eyebrow slightly raised. Fury was written across Sammy's face, and it was amazing, but Sam and his Dad didn't look much like each other except when they were mad, and then you could see the resemblance. Same flashing eyes, same twitching jaw muscle of fury. "I think you both need to calm down, and –"

"This is your fault, isn't it?" Dad said, glaring right at Dean. "You encouraged him, didn't you?"

Dean sighed, aware he was letting Dad down yet again. It seemed he'd made his life's mission to disappoint him, even though that was the last thing he ever wanted to do. "He's not happy, Dad. If he doesn't –"

"Happy?" Dad interrupted. His expression betrayed disbelief. "The world's in danger, and you care if some goddamn teenager is happy?"

"Fuck you!" Sam shouted. "I'm an adult, and you're fucking crazy, Dad. This whole crusade of yours? Insane. Three people can't save the world."

Dad openly glowered at Sam, and Dean knew why. Sam had kicked a sore spot. "It's about saving one person at a time, not all at once. And if we can keep another family from going through the hell that we went through –"

Sam was shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest to hide the fact that he was clenching his fists. "Don't you dare throw Mom in my face!"

"You're dishonoring her memory by –"

"She wouldn't want this for us!"

"How the hell do you know what she would've wanted?"

"Would you two please shut up?" Dean snapped. Somehow it felt even weirder having a knock down, drag out family fight in someone else's house. "We can talk about this –"

Dad was now shaking his head. "There's nothing to talk about."

"No, there isn't," Sam agreed, turning and snatching his coat violently from the rack in the corner.

"If you go out that door, don't bother coming back," Dad said.

Sam gave him an icy fuck you sort of look as he shrugged on his jacket, and said, "Fine by me." He slammed the door as he left.

Dean didn't so much sigh as deflate. "I'll go after him –"

"No," Dad said. "He made his choice."

He looked up at him. He didn't mean that, did he? But Dad was giving him that look. The look that said he was about two minutes away from chewing metal and spitting bullets. "But … I thought –"

"How long did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That he was applying to college?"

Dean wasn't sure how to answer that. He wanted to lie, but he also was sure his Dad would see right through it. "A few months."

"A few months. And you didn't think to tell me?"

"No. It was Sam's news to tell. I thought you'd be okay with this. Don't most dads want their kids to go to college?"

Dad stared at him through narrowed eyes. He was clearly trying to calm down, but Dean hadn't seen him this upset in ages. What the fuck had just happened? Dean's mind was still reeling. "We're not most families, Dean. Isn't that obvious?"

"Yeah, but …" he was at a loss. He remembered encouraging Sam to apply to Stanford, even though Sam was afraid he'd never get in. Dean told him the shame wasn't in getting rejected. It was getting knocked down and staying knocked down. If you didn't try, you never knew. Apparently that was the worst advice he could've ever given. He decided to try and appeal to his Dad through logic. He was good with that. "Dad, Sammy isn't like us. He hates this life –"

It was once again the wrong tack to take. "We're a family. We stick together. Do you realize what you've done?"

Dean remained hopelessly confused, and no, it wasn't the beer. There was something missing from this conversation, just like there was something missing in the argument between Dad and Sam, but Sammy was too mad to see it. "Dad, what aren't you telling me? Are we being hunted or something?"

Dad shook his head and turned away, like Dean was the stupidest thing on the planet. "We're hunters, Dean. What we hunt always hunts us back." Dad then stomped out of the room, and judging from the door slam, retreated to the study.

Was that an answer that made any sense? Yes, but also, not really. He'd been hunting with his Dad long enough to know when he was withholding information. There was something he wasn't telling them. Was it about the yellow eyed demon? They hadn't had an even semi-credible rumor about him in ages. Dean sometimes wondered if it was even still alive.

He was too angry to ask right now, but Dean was now certain there was something he wasn't telling them. Why else would he react so violently to Sam wanting to go to college? It was insane.

Dean sat back, and finished his beer. Would his Dad ever tell him what he was hiding? If his past track record was any indication, the answer was no. But he didn't really throw Sammy out of the family, had he? That was even more crazy a thought.

No. They just needed time to cool off, and everything would be fine. Dean gave it a couple days, tops.