Vision

by Rednih

Dean sees with his own eyes what's going on. Warnings include: Graphic Depiction of Violence, Major Character Death, and Pre-SLASH.

Fall 2002. Windom, Minnesota.

It can't be real. This is a joke. It's a prank.

He is not seeing this.

He stays parked down the street for hours upon hours, waiting for him to come out again. There's no sign that he's even noticed, though. No one sees him here.

He's not missed or taken into account.

He tries not to think about what Sam would do. And the kid would do something, wouldn't be content to just sit here in the car, waiting. Sam wouldn't watch. He'd go in and demand answers.

He'd ask the tough questions. Sam would.

But he's not Sam. He's not his father, either.

And he's not that boy who lives in that house down the street, who lives with his pretty, blonde mother. He's not the one with the fuckin' picket fence standing watch over the green-ass lawn.

He's not the one with a home.

But this kid is, Sammy too, and so, apparently, is Dad. He's at home now, with this family of his. He has his pretty wife, his pretty breathing wife, and his happy, smiling, laughing infant of a son. The kid's a fucking target just waiting to be hit, getting off the school bus with his book bag and trapper keeper and sneakers, for Chrissake.

It's getting dark, and the old man still hasn't stepped outside the house since he went in this morning. They're probably sitting down to dinner right about now. The three of them are enjoying actual homemade meatloaf, maybe, with green beans and mashed fucking potatoes. The woman probably made a pie. Dad loves pie.

He knows tailing him was a bad idea now, just like he always knows: too late. It's too fucking late now, isn't it? He starts the Impala, and the roar of the engine is deafening in the stillness of this street. It's a nice neighborhood. He swerves out into the street loudly, as loudly and obnoxiously as he can, hitting the gas and pressing it down nearly to the floor. He guns it past the perfect house, with its wind chimes and potted plants that get watered every day. He does not even glance at the lit windows of the place as he passes by.

He threw out Sam's number the day the kid's roommate gave it to him. He left behind that stupid blue blanket that he remembered having for forever in some motel out west when he was seven.

Looks like it's time again.

Dean knows how to cut ties.

He'll just never work close to Minnesota ever again. It's past time he switched to a new phone anyway, and a new number won't be that much of a difference in the long run. He used to have six numbers in his 'Contacts' list. Last year, it was cut down to four. Three months ago, he took off another one.

Pastor Jim and Caleb are good men, good hunters, but he doesn't care what they think. Dad can tell them whatever reason he wants to as to why he isn't there anymore. Dean knows how to hunt by himself.

He knows how to fight, how to fuck, and how to survive.

He knows when to cut his losses and cash in his chips.

He knows when he's been replaced, and damned if he's going to stand by and watch some punk ass kid get a happy ending, with John Winchester in the role of devoted father.

It's not until he's in Illinois that Dean realizes he'd been crying.

***

Winter 2002. North Platte, Nebraska.

Duane Allman is due to check out in ten minutes and Dean has yet to repack a thing. The bag is virtually empty, even.

He'd gotten pretty hammered last night, and vague, hazy memories of throwing his shit around the crappy motel room are just part of what he's trying to drown in the bathroom sink.

He remembers practicing this when they were younger. Sam never had the patience to wait it out. He gave up just after a minute every single time, could never push through the cloudy burn in his chest as the desire to breathe became the only thought, the only real need. Dean can hold his breath underwater for four minutes. Once, he'd even managed an extra thirty seconds on top of that.

The sink here is large enough that he can fit most of his head under the water when it's full. He doesn't count this time. It doesn't really matter.

There's a banging coming from the bedroom, and for a moment he wonders if he's been under for a long time already. Has he missed checkout?

A slamming sound, as of a door shoved open against the wall, resonates in his head, but he doesn't come up. It could be anyone. It could be anything. There's something behind him right now. At this point in time, he is breaking the third rule: 'Never leave your back exposed.' It's right behind 'look after your brother' and 'keep your head down.'

But he's not the one who left his back exposed. He's not the one who left.

He's being pulled up all of a sudden, two large hands gripping either arm like vises. He falls right back onto the body the hands belong to, and hears the breath rush out of his father with a "Whumph!"

"Dean! Jesus, Dean, what the hell are you doing?!"

He just lies there and eventually Dad slides out from under him, but those hands just switch places and go right on back to squeezing his arms. There's water in his ears, and he's somehow wet clear down to his jeans. He is a pretty messy guy, though.

"Dean!" his father shouts again. Then, just as Dad pulls his hand back in preparation for a slap, Dean locks eyes with him. The hand drifts down to his side, and there's nothing left to say.

Dean shrugs off the other hand, getting to his feet a little clumsily, but that's because there's water everywhere. It's pretty slippery. He goes into the bedroom section and starts gathering up his shit. He shoves it in the duffle without looking at the bathroom doorway, but his dad's a pretty big guy, and it's hard to ignore someone with that much. . . presence, especially when he's only a few feet away.

"Found you through the grapevine," his dad says. Dean hadn't asked, doesn't honestly care, and starts his double-checking in order to get out of there more quickly. "Jim heard about someone clearing out a poltergeist in Omaha last week. Then I got wind of a ghost or two out this way. Seemed a safe bet it'd be you. Finally."

He shoulders his bag and starts marching straight for the door. It's closed, so his dad must not have been worried when he broke in. He hadn't been in a hurry when he slammed the door open, just pissed off, most likely. Everything in Dad turns into anger if left long enough.

"No," Dad says, and Dean sees him push away from the doorframe and rush over. He grabs Dean's arm again, and it's about enough of that.

"Get the fuck off me."

Yeah, now he looks sorry. After betraying him and lying to him for however long, now his father gets that wounded, mournful look all over his face.

"Dean? Son?" Dad lets go of his arm, takes a step back, but he doesn't shift away from standing right in front of the door. "What's wrong here? What is going on?"

"Been a busy bee," Dean mutters, remembering something from a long time ago. A whole lifetime ago, someone said those exact words to the same man standing in Dean's way right now. But maybe it's not the same man here as it was back then.

After all, the situation's changed. Dean's certainly not his mother, and Dad is almost unrecognizable from that mechanic who used to play catch with him as a child.

"What did you say?"

Dean jerks his eyes back up and knows now how pointless his dad's quest for revenge is. It won't change a thing for any of them. It's pointless, all of it.

His whole life's been dedicated to nothing. He's got nothing but Sam to show for it, either, and fat lot of good that does when he'll never see the kid again. Last week, Dean wished for a fight and managed to stir up one in a bar.

Right now, all he wants to do is go back underwater.

"We're done here," he tells his father. "I'm heading out." He pauses for a breath, then decides to go for it. "You make sure you treat them right.

"Boy deserves a father. Don't fuck it up again."

A guy as big as his dad is usually pretty tough to move against his will, so Dean knows he won't be followed. If he were going to, he would've fought harder back in that motel room. He would've shouted some more, made with the grabbing hands and Voice of Command. Dad following meant he still had something to say.

When Dean pushed past him, there were no words. For the first time ever, he'd left his father speechless.

Duane Allman checks out of the Brotherly Inn right on schedule, merges onto I-80 smoothly, and sets a course west.

***

Summer 2003. Hart, Michigan.

If he never sees another tourist again, it will be too soon. Every job is bad when it involves mass civilians, but tourists just make bad worse.

He sits down on the bed closest to the door and goes about taking his boots off. They're soggy and probably ruined. Swimming in full gear tends to do that. He manages his socks too before he's too exhausted, and ends up just falling back onto the bed, wet clothes and all.

He opens his eyes again just as he's taking a huge gasp of air in, the dream still making him want to squint against the feel of water surrounding him. It doesn't help that the ceiling has water stains and the wallpaper is a sickly blue-green. Dean sits up again and puts his head in his hands, focusing on breathing slowly and regularly. When the room stops spinning from his panic, he stumbles to his feet and peels off the clinging, damp shirts, the sopping wet jeans and underwear. It's cold, though, and now he doesn't know what to do. He's filthy, the lake having been more mud and sand than he thought possible, but the last thing he wants to do is step willingly into water again.

"Necessary steps," he murmurs to himself, wrapping his arms around his chest and trudging into the bathroom. The water starts out cold, just like the lake, but heats up quickly enough when he cranks it all the way to the left. He drops a towel on the tank of the toilet then manfully steps into the tub and under the spray.

It's when he's washing his hair with the crappy complimentary motel shampoo that he realizes his necklace isn't around his neck. Immediately he drops his hand down, but it just fumbles around futilely, confirming what he already knows. It's not there.

Sammy gave him that necklace, years ago. It'd been Bobby's before that.

"Shit!" he shouts, smashing his fist into the tile. Again and then again. He looks down at his hand. There's blood, and the first two knuckles are already swelling. It's not a big deal. He's broken them before, and so what if they don't set quite right? He does just fine.

But he slams his fist back into the wall again, anyway.

After he finishes rinsing out the shampoo, he shuts the water off and it's an easy lean over to the towel. He uses his left hand as much as he can to compensate, and curses himself for a fool for not punching with that hand in the first place. Dean bypasses the mirror and sink completely and just heads back into the bedroom. He rifles through his duffle, finally coming across a clean flannel and a clean-ish t-shirt. He puts on his spare jeans, the ones with the holes, then drags the shirts and a fresh pair of socks onto himself. There's a spare pair of boots out in the Impala, and time hasn't mended his waterlogged ones, so he just sighs at the waste and heads out to the car. His last glimpse of that room is of those two boots lying on their sides like little plastic soldiers knocked dead.

His dad had bought him those boots.

***

Fall 2003. Atherton, California.

He's turned back four times now, but every single time he pulls off, turns around, and starts heading southeast again. It's past ridiculous and right on into sad territory now.

It's not like he's even gonna talk to the kid. He's nine minutes away from Palo Alto. When he gets there, he probably won't even see Sam, just drive around like some sleaze stalking coeds while he tries to imagine himself living anywhere like this.

But Sam'll fit in for sure. He fits in wherever he goes. He's like Dad in that.

Dean finally slows the car down just enough to make out the address numbers on the apartment complexes. When he comes to the one where he knew Sam lived last year at this time, he hits the brakes and tries to slow his breathing.

"Fuck this," he mutters, but his foot doesn't move back to the gas. "You're fucking retarded. Fuck this. Move the car, asshole. He'll hate you being here."

And now he's talking to himself like a crazy person.

There's birdsong here. It's almost ten in the morning, sunny and cheerful like only California ever is. He hears laughter drifting down the street, and looks through his rear view at a small group of people heading this way. Two guys and a girl, all arm in arm, and one of them is ridiculously tall.

Oh, shit.

Sammy's the one on the end. Dean can tell just from his gait, but as they get closer he makes out the eyes, the hair, now even longer and wilder than before. The kid's grinning, and something in him wants to curl up and just die when the dimples slide away, when that huge smile wilts and is replaced with disappointment.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbles, dropping his eyes down to his hands. Is it worth it? Sam's happy and healthy here, and now he's ruined it.

"Hold on, guys," he hears Sam say, so much closer and real now. "I'll be just a minute. . . " Dean can hear as he comes closer and closer to the car. If ever he were to mend his mistake in coming, now would be the time. He should just leave. He's seen Sam. Sam is good.

Mission complete.

There's a hand on the open window, but he drags his eyes up and looks straight ahead at the street. It's nice here, a residential neighborhood full of trees and grass. It looks like a thousand places he's passed through over the course of his life, and now Dean realizes what he's done.

He's fucked everything up again.

"Dean?" comes Sam's voice drifting in through the window. It's quiet and rebuking, and he knows that's because the girl and the guy Sam's chummy with are standing not five feet back. "What are you doing here?"

It's not too late, and he takes a deep breath before finally making things right.

It doesn't matter what he thinks. He's not important in this. If he can do anything right, it's doing what's best for Sammy.

"Just in the neighborhood," Dean says. He lifts his hands to the steering wheel and jerks his head in a semblance of a nod. "Thought I'd do my brotherly duty and make sure you weren't living in a cardboard box somewhere."

"Dean, what's wrong? You look-- "

"So enjoy your day, Sammy," he manages to grit out. "I'll be seein' ya."

He lets his foot off the brake and the car inches forward slowly. Sam's hand grips the frame briefly before letting go, and that's when he hits the gas.

***

Winter 2003. Las Vegas, Nevada.

It's past time to check his post office box, so he looks and finds a hunt easily enough. Vegas is a big-ass city, with lots of sinners and bad mojo, and creepy shit flocks here like buzzards to road kill. It's his kind of town, up front and completely open about its sleaziness and tasteless appeal.

Sammy'd chosen Savannah, Georgia as his drop, which also makes a lot of sense these days. There's a shitload of bad mojo down there too, but it looks genteel and polite on the surface. Much like Sam himself, in a lot of ways.

After the job's done, he checks out of the disco-themed motel and heads on over. There are four new credit cards, and three applications. When he goes to pull out another envelope, though, a leggy brunette down the row bends over to pick up some flyer she dropped. She's wearing a mini skirt and glares back at him once she's upright again.

This would be the moment when he grins back and shrugs, or smiles wickedly and winks, or whistles appreciatively, or forces a blush and quickly turns back to the postcard in his hands. . .

A postcard.

Holy fucking goddamn son-of-a-bitch asshole crap piece of shit bastard.

'D

Bobby's. Case. Family.

Please.'

He drops it in the trash on his way outside, the woman from earlier pushing past him almost reluctantly. And instead of heading out, or even calling, Dean finds the nearest strip club and drowns himself in Chivas until he's seeing double.

He wakes up next to another leggy brunette, this one sleeping soundly with not a stitch on. There are three used condoms in the toilet when he finally stumbles into the bathroom, and it'd be kinda reassuring if he didn't feel like absolute shit. He's still got it. She didn't kick him out.

"Thanks, gorgeous," he whispers into her ear, with a kiss to her cheek for good measure.

"Mmmm," she moans grumpily. One of her hands comes up to his face, and she moves her mouth to his. "You don't have to go," she whispers back when he breaks the kiss.

"I wish I didn't," he says before he can stop himself. "What's your number, babe?"

She smiles at him, and now he can see the dimples that bracket her mouth.

***

Winter 2003. Lawrence County, South Dakota.

Twenty-plus hours of driving later, he pulls into Singer's Salvage. He'd left his hangover somewhere around Sterling, Colorado, but the anger soon took its place. Now he can barely sit still long enough to shut the Impala down before he's out and pacing in the snow-covered gravel. The big, black truck's not here, but that doesn't mean it's not around back or into town. Hell, the old man could've just wanted to get him here, to have him check in.

It's been a little over a year since he's seen his father, two since he last saw Bobby.

A dog starts barking and woofing at him from up on the porch, a big hound of some sort. He stops pacing, instead braces himself back against the still-warm hood of the car, and waits. Soon enough, he can pick out a figure standing in the doorway, but then someone else pushes past that person and Bobby's looking at him.

He'll wait. If the old bastard's in there, let him come the hell out here himself and talk, and lecture, and order.

He glances back up at Bobby and sees him sigh before tromping out into the snow towards the car. There's still someone standing by the door, watching, but it's too far away and suddenly he's not even sure he wants to know who it is.

He's going to throw up all the coffee he'd downed on the road up here, and still nobody's going to say anything. If this isn't Hell, then it's damn close, and he pushes off the car and moves back towards the driver's side as fast as he can.

"Dean!" Bobby yells, breaking into a fast jog and just blocking his hand from the door handle. "You ain't going anywhere, now we finally got you here." He breathes out heavily, then slaps Dean's hand away when he tries to shoulder him out of the way.

He turns around and kicks some snow, pulls his hair and feels like killing, screaming, vomiting, and crying all at once. Instead, Dean turns and stares at the house again. Too short to be his father. Too small in the shoulders to be Caleb. Pastor Jim wouldn't stand there watching.

"You gotta understand, son," Bobby starts. "What's happened isn't anybody's fault. It's just how-- "

"Who is that?"

"Wh-- what?" Bobby stutters. He whips his head around and squints at the doorway, and Dean can feel it when he tenses up.

He doesn't feel like vomiting anymore.

"Now, just wait a minute!" There's the sound of huffing and the slushing of boots through snow right behind him. "Dean, stop!"

At the bottom of the stairs, he finally makes him out. Bobby grabs his arm tight, holding him there, but he isn't going to get any closer now.

Can't be more than 11 or 12. Blonde hair. Dad's. . . Dad's eyes.

He's looking right back at him, and that's when the anger evaporates.

***

He picks up the shot glass and dumps the whiskey inside down his throat. Bobby's now four behind.

"Any timeframe on when he'll be back?" he asks casually, having to cough a little to get past the burn of the liquor.

Bobby shakes his head, then glances into the kitchen pointedly. "Just like old times," he says quietly.

Dean looks over too, sees the kid at the kitchen table with headphones on, scribbling at something in a notebook.

"Why isn't he in school?"

Bobby chuckles, turning his head back to look at Dean. "They don't make anyone go to school the day before Christmas, boy. Doesn't mean the hunting stops, though," he adds, looking over at the kid again.

Dean thinks the realization that he'd nearly missed noticing it was Christmas deserves some more whiskey. He reaches over, pouring himself another shot and then hovering the bottle over Bobby's empty one questioningly.

"Think I'm done," he says, waiting until after Dean swallows before pinning him with that assessing look of his. "Think maybe you should be too?" he asks delicately.

"Why?" He shrugs, looking into the kitchen again, only this time the kid is looking back. "I got nowhere to be. Nothing to do. After all, it's Christmas. Isn't that what family's supposed to do? Sit around and shoot the shit, then eat turkey?"

Bobby doesn't respond immediately, takes his sweet time of it. "Don't know 'bout turkey, but I'm sure I got some beans and chicken 'round here somewhere. You gonna help, or make me cater your ass?"

Dean nods, leaving his eyes where they are and waiting for the kid to break first.

"Sure thing," he responds. "Been awhile since I cooked anything."

Adam drops his eyes back down to his notebook, and Dean turns and rustles up a smirk for Bobby.

***

He's doing the dishes, but the sound of them talking in the next room isn't quite drowned out. Bobby's voice carries, and sometimes the kid'll say something a little too loud and angry. It's easy to get the gist of the conversation.

When he finishes, he dries his hands then walks over to the living room/research library. Leaning in the doorway, he watches Bobby try and soothe the ruffled feathers. It's like watching his own history from the outside.

" . . .said he'd be here!"

Bobby sighs, resting back on the desk and crossing his arms across his chest. "Don't know what to tell ya, kid. You know the score. He'll get here when he gets here. Ain't nothing we can do to make it diff'rent."

The boy strides and swirls around the room some more, like a miniature tornado as he picks up and messes with random objects before moving on. He whirls a little too close to the doorframe at one point, and that's when he realizes Dean is there.

Big eyes. Can't get past the eyes. The hair throws him off, though. He keeps expecting dark brown when he looks up, but it's always blonde.

"What's your problem?" the kid demands, suddenly drawing himself straight and rolling his shoulders back.

"Don't got one," he answers.

"So, what? We're just gonna sit here and do nothing?" Kid's head turns back to stare down Bobby, but his body's still angled at Dean. Smart one.

Before Bobby can get anything out, he jumps in there with a smile. "Yep," he says, grinning when Kid gapes at him in horror. The shock quickly turns to anger, and that glare needs work if Kid is expecting it to work on him.

"What the fuck?!" Kid screeches, dropping his shoulders and flinging his arms wide. "This is stupid! I'm not gonna stay here just cos he told me-- "

"Yes, you are," Dean tells him, pushing farther into the room and right into the kid's personal space. He tries to backpedal away, but it's so easy to just grip him by the arm and hold him in place. "Dad ordered you to stay with Bobby, and that's exactly what you're going to do. Don't make it a punishment," he adds, releasing the boy before turning and making his way towards the back door.

He works on the Impala out there for awhile, hears Bobby moving around the garage at one point. Then, towards sunset, someone else comes near and he looks out to the sight of blue sneakers standing next to the rear passenger side tire.

"What is it?" he calls out from under the car. The sneakers shift and shuffle a little.

"Are you Dean?" comes the kid's quiet voice, and he's so bewildered by the question that he rolls out before he's even really thought about it.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up from his position on the creeper. "Yeah, I'm Dean." He waits then says, "And you're Adam." Smirking, he slides back under the Impala, saying, "Welcome to the family, kid."

***

Dean doesn't sleep that night, just lies on the floor and stares at the ceiling. The whiskey bottle is almost empty in the morning, when the first sounds of Bobby getting up penetrate the silence. By the time he comes downstairs, Dean's got the coffee waiting and bacon and eggs going in a skillet. He gets 'the look,' but Bobby's good at playing along. He doesn't say a word when Dean knocks the salt and pepper over, and ignores the fact that the now empty bottle of Beam is lounging quite obviously in the trash.

Adam tromps down the stairs around ten-thirty, all sullen and slumping. Dean offers to cook up some food for him, but the kid just glares at him and pulls down a box of cereal. Dean goes back to the couch and starts cleaning his equipment. When he glances into the kitchen after a few minutes, he sees Adam quickly turning his head back to his bowl of cereal.

He smirks and goes back to working on his babies. A shadow stretches across him while he's going at the Colt .45, and Dean looks up and meets the kid's eyes with an impatient look.

"What now?"

Kid drops his head, shrugs. Dean's had about enough of this already. Had to go through it with Sam. Damned if history's gonna repeat itself with this one.

"You ever handle anything?" he asks the kid, holding up the Colt to illustrate.

He gets a wide-eyed look and a shake of the head in response. Figures.

"Come here," he tells him, jerking his head to the cushion next to him. Adam shuffles over quickly, and Dean almost smiles when the kid trips over the rug in his haste. Almost. "First thing: never point it near anything you don't want wasted."

"But. . . " Kid takes a deep breath, then challenges him. "I've seen you, you and. . . John, Bobby. . . you stick them behind your backs, in the waistbands," he says, pointing on himself where he means.

Dean smirks at him. "Yeah, well, we've been handling these things a hell of a long time. Know what we're doing. You," he says, going back to the Colt, "do not. So, don't point it at anything but a target for the next six months, even if you're sure it's empty, and we'll go from there."

"You're going to show me how to shoot?" Kid asks in this utterly amazed voice.

"No," he snaps, wishing he didn't feel bad when the kid flinches at his tone. "I'm going to teach you how to protect yourself." He waits a beat. "There's a difference."

"What the difference?" comes Adam's now hesitant voice.

"This way, maybe Dad won't kill me when he finds out," Dean replies with his best attempt at a grin.

Adam looks at him blankly for a little bit, but then finally cracks a smile.

Dean drops his head back down and ignores the way the kid's dimples make him feel like hunting down another bottle of whiskey to drown in.

***

Kid's a terrible shot, but they all are when first starting. Sam couldn't hit the broad side of a barn till he was about nine.

When the sky starts getting dark, Dean shows him how to pack up and they head back towards Bobby's house. Not bad for an afternoon spent with a complete stranger. The kid never even mentions his mother or what he's doing here, though, and Dean thinks the attitude and mood swings might be more than just normal teenager shit.

Once in sight of the old house, he starts scanning the drive and yard. It's not until he spots the black pickup that he realizes what the sinking feeling in his chest is. He hesitates, stops walking and just watches Adam keep going forward. After a few paces, though, Kid turns around and looks at him confused-like. Dean takes a deep breath in and squares his shoulders before starting in again. He's surprised Dad hadn't come out and found them. Bobby's most likely out back working on something. He'd have known what was happening, but maybe he chose to run interference. Wouldn't be the first time.

They're both silent as they hit the yard and draw closer to the porch. It's not like they'd talked up a storm out by the targets, but it was never a heavy, awkward silence like it is now. Pushing open the door and going in first feels like walking into a lion's den. When he turns the corner and looks up, Dad's looking back from his spot on the couch. He's leaning forward with his hands under his chin, and Dean breathes out a little heavily. At least the old man isn't pacing. That's the kiss of death, right there. Anything else he can deal with, but Dad walking around like a pissed off tiger is always the prelude to a shouting match.

Dean feels kind of sick when he realizes he's missed those fights. Used to be, he'd come in sometimes and have to break up Dad and Sammy, drop whatever fast food or ritual ingredients he'd been sent out to get and hustle over to keep the two of them from duking it out.

"Dean."

He sets the bag of equipment down, deliberately turning his back to them. Adam's standing just barely in the doorway, a scowl on his face. He's chewing the inside of his cheek from the looks of it, though, so Kid's nowhere near as calm as he's trying to seem. Neither is Dean, for that matter.

The gap where he's supposed to answer Dad's unspoken question is just getting bigger and bigger, so he starts pointlessly rifling through the bag in order to keep his hands busy and his face hidden.

"What were you after?" he asks in a monotone instead.

There's a heavy sigh and then the sound of Bobby's couch springs groaning as Dad gets to his feet. He comes close and sets a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder. It's gentle and apologetic and supposed to make everything all better. That's what Sam used to sneer when Dad would go in to pay for gas and the two of them were left in the car. 'Bet it'll be candy bars and soda this time. Like everything's all better,' he'd say, glaring out the window of the Impala.

He shrugs off Dad's hand and moves away to the other side of the room. Suddenly, there's nothing to say. He doesn't even know why he came here besides some ingrained response to the man telling him to. It's just habit.

'You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.'

"Dean, I don't know what you're thinking, but this is not-- " He stalls, his face falling into those sad lines Dean hardly ever sees anymore. Used to be, Dad looked like that all the time, sad and defeated and lost. Not determined at all. Not driven or reckless.

But then, a lot of things used to be that aren't anymore. There used to be a place for him, even if it were only riding shotgun in the Impala with Sammy in the back bitching about yet another school they had to leave too early. Now he feels like a stranger. Now he feels like an interloper, some pathetic guy refusing to grow up.

Sam's not even here. It's Christmas, the first one in years in which Dean's seen his father, and now it's Sammy who's not here.

He accidentally makes eye contact with Adam, and feels like bashing the fucking kid's head in for looking so clueless and confused. Everything's not all better. Everything will never be the same ever again, and it's all because of this kid.

Dean pushes past him and stalks into the kitchen. He doesn't know what to do once he's there, but at least he can breathe again.

"Fucking lied," he growls, kicking the cabinets and then punching the fridge. He turns around and sees Dad gently pushing Adam farther back into the den while stepping forward, himself. He puts his hands out in a calming gesture and Dean just laughs.

"So that's what you were doing on all those 'hunts,'" he sneers. "Got a thing for blondes, huh?"

From the looks of it, Dad's about one step away from just hauling back and clocking him right in the face, but Dean can't see the point in stopping now.

"Is this one better than the last?" At his dad's reluctantly blank look, he adds, jerking his head in Adam's direction, "He got any brothers or sisters? Mom died and you fucked up with me and Sammy, so now you're starting ov-- ?"

He doesn't even finish the sentence before he's being shoved back against the fridge so hard he bites his tongue and smacks his head.

"Shut up," his dad warns him, voice so low it's like rumbling thunder. His hands are fisted in Dean's shirt, keeping him pinned to the refrigerator. "It isn't like that, and you know it."

"Like you just gave up on us and went to greener pastures?"

Dad closes his eyes and growls in frustration. Then he looks back at Dean and shakes him a little. "Stop it! I didn't abandon you or Sam. I didn't leave. I didn't even know he existed until last year, okay?! It was just. . . " He stops, and Dean can see him searching for the right words, for how to say it without making it sound as bad as it is.

Dean sighs and looks past him. Adam's standing in the doorway with a wounded expression on his face, and he meets Dean's eyes with something like morbid curiosity after awhile.

Eventually Dad lets go of him and steps back. Dean avoids the old man's eyes and just slumps against the fridge some more. His head hurts where he's pretty certain there's now a lump forming, and he can taste blood in his mouth.

But when he thinks about it, he's pretty sure he knows the score now, knows why Adam's here instead of with his mother back in Minnesota.

"When'd it happen?" he asks quietly. And when the answer comes, it's not his dad doing the talking for once.

"My mom was killed three months ago," Adam tells him, all huge green eyes and expressive eyebrows. He's even got the little tilt to his mouth when he talks, the tugging up in the right corner like Dad. Like Sammy.

"Do we know what did it?" Dean asks, not realizing until later that he'd immediately latched onto the idea of a 'what,' and not a 'who' as being responsible.

***

Summer 2004. Somewhere between Glenwood, Iowa and Liberal, Kansas.

He tries not to work Kansas jobs. He and Dad have always had a sort of understanding about passing those hunts on to others. It's understood. This one is clear on the other side of the state from Lawrence, though, and the job itself demands immediate attention.

Something is going after families in that city, the mothers and children in particular. He can just suck it up and do his goddamned job.

It's about an 8-hour drive from Glenwood, where he'd downed another freakin' ghoul, to Liberal. People call their towns the strangest damn things. More like Narrow-minded, KS, or Liberal. . . To a Certain Extent, KS. Kinda Liberal, KS.

We Wanna Be Cool and Attract the Tourists, KS.

To be fair, it probably isn't all that bad a place. He's never been there, but most towns and cities aren't as backward or cruel as a lot of people think. Blame it on the news media and popular culture's obsession with cities and having everything 'Right There, Right Now.'

Although, on the flip side, he'll just about guarantee that if he were to go into a local Liberal, KS bar and hit on some decent-looking guy he'd get the 'look of utter disgust' from everyone there, and probably some hicks willing to beat the living hell out of him, too. Being an unacknowledged atheist is okay, and so is infidelity and shitty parenting, but if you're gay and admit it. . . well then, you are either very, very brave, or very, very stupid. Or both. And certainly a sucker for pain, as well.

***

Summer 2004. Highway 54, Outskirts of Liberal, Kansas.

Leaning back up against the trunk of the Impala, looking out as the sun sets over the city, the only thing he can do is marvel at how beautiful it all is. . . and how truly ugly, at the same time.

It hadn't been a ghoul, or a werewolf or poltergeist or any manner of supernatural baddie that had taken those kids and those mothers and done those things to them. It hadn't been a wendigo that had left them there, naked and bleeding out on a deserted stretch of dirt road.

A man had done that. A human being did that to those kids, raped them and cut 'em up, leaving them with the bodies of their dead mothers in a ditch. So many of them.

He's never had a job like this one, where it didn't turn out to be some bizarre creature or spell. It was some normal-looking guy, in some normal-looking house. He'd had beer in the fridge, and a crocheted afghan draped over his couch. He'd had pictures hanging up on the walls of himself with an older man, and one about his own age, both who resembled him. He'd had a family. Just a normal guy.

Dean had managed to keep that last kid alive, but the same couldn't be said for the mother. Six years old, and Dean'd had to forcibly pry the boy's hands off his mother's corpse. He'd had to drag him away in order to get his own belt around the kid's leg as a make-shift tourniquet.

It isn't fair. It isn't right. That kid is going to be screwed up for the rest of his life. Nothing's ever going to make it better. And for what?

The worst part is. . . Dean's alone on this job. Or maybe that's the only good thing in the whole fucked-up situation. No Dad, no Sam. No one.

He goes to visit the kid in the hospital the next day, but it's pointless. The little guy's in such shock he doesn't talk or even move the entire time Dean's there. Barely blinks.

When he gets up to leave, he has the urge to hug the kid, gather him up and whisper that it'll be all right. He doesn't, though. Kid's an orphan now, his mother unmarried and single, estranged from any family. The nurse tells Dean quietly that Social Services is trying to track down the grandparents, but that it doesn't look good. Dean's last sight of the boy is of him lying flat on the hospital bed, head turned away from the window and eyes wide open, unseeing.

Dylan Gibson, from Liberal, Kansas, and his mother Sherry.

When he pulls over into a motel the next night, he sits in the car and dials Sam's number. Little shit doesn't pick up, but that's Sam's voice on the answering machine.

"You've reached Sam and Jess. We're unable to come to the phone, so please leave your name, number, and message after the tone, and we'll get back to you soon."

It's stilted and Sam sounds uncomfortable saying it. Must be nice, though, to have a real answering machine and people that call for you or your girl. Dean bets Sam loves coming home after work or class and seeing the little light blinking with new messages.

Must be nice.

He hangs up at the beep, and gets out. Goes around to the trunk and pulls out his bag and the one with the weapons and supplies. Slides the keycard in and pulls it out fast, then opens the door and swings everything onto the bed.

He can't sleep that night, so he cleans everything at least twice and spaces out on some infomercials. When the clock hits five, he climbs to his feet and trudges into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, and after he finishes rinsing he starts filling the sink. It's when he's just staring at all that water, seconds away from pushing his face under, that his phone starts ringing.

When he gets back into the other room, the call's already gone to voicemail, so he checks the number.

Adam. Probably calling to bitch about school again.

***

Fall 2004. De Queen, Arkansas.

He pulls up around one in the afternoon on Saturday. It's just a small apartment complex, nothing fancy, but it's nicer by far than anything he's stayed in for awhile. Stopping outside number six, he carefully sets his bags down and knocks. A scant few seconds later, the door swings open.

For a brief moment, Adam's expression is happy and excited, but then the moment's gone and Kid schools himself into nonchalance.

"Oh, hey," he says, swinging the door open wider and turning around. He goes back into the apartment, and Dean picks his bags up again to follow him.

Kicking the door shut, Dean sets the weapons bag on the kitchen table, then walks into the dinky living room and tosses his duffel down by the couch. Adam makes a huffing sound, though, and stalks into the kitchen.

When he comes back out, he's lugging the arsenal bag with both hands, and Dean races over and takes it from him.

"What the hell?" Dean asks him, irritated.

Adam just puts his hands on his hips and glares back. "No weapons on the table," he declares, and Dean raises his eyebrows at him.

Setting the bag down gently on the couch, he turns back to the kid. "You tell Dad that, too?" he asks cheekily, and Adam makes a face at him and shakes his head a little.

"I don't need to," he returns, and about-faces back into the kitchen.

Dean takes his time about it, but eventually he drifts over there, too. He leans in the doorway and watches the kid make sandwiches and pull down a bag of chips.

"You hungry, or something?" he asks, and Adam throws him a look that just about screams 'You are a fuckin' moron, dude.'

"Nah," he tosses back. "I just really like making sandwiches, man. Can't get enough of it."

Dean's surprised when he starts laughing. It just kinda sneaks out. When he looks up, Adam's got a weird look on his face, and that makes him chuckle a little too.

Dean pushes away from the door frame, then walks over and drops down into one of the chairs surrounding the cheap, little table. Adam's frowning, but he gathers up both plates and the bag of chips on his way over. The fridge is within easy reaching distance of Dean's chair, the place is so small, so he opens it and snags a beer for himself and a carton of juice for Adam.

Kid just stares at the juice like he doesn't know what to do with it, and Dean leans forward to whap him on the head. "Drink it, dumbass," he says, and gets another one of those exasperated looks in response.

"Why can't I have a beer?" Adam suddenly demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Cos you're so adorably little," Dean answers, rolling his eyes and happily making the introductions between his mouth and the sandwich. Somewhere in the second bite, he looks up and Kid's still glowering. "Oh, c'mon," Dean says with his mouth full. "It's been in there for, what? A couple weeks already?" Kid looks away. Yeah, that's what he thought. "And you haven't sneaked any so far, have you?" he guesses.

Adam shrugs.

Dean goes in for another bite, and contents himself with chewing until he gets eye contact again. When those eyes finally flick over and rest on him, he swallows and levels with the kid.

"Look," he says, setting his sandwich down so Adam knows he's serious. "Shit like that can wait, okay? It's not as fun as people make it sound, and you're obviously a good kid if you haven't taken one yet." He gives him a quick smile, then picks up his food again and dives in.

Adam makes that huffing sound he does, then gets up and walks over to the cupboard. Opening it and pulling out a glass, he comes back to the table and exaggeratedly starts pouring the orange juice into the glass.

"You don't drink out of the carton," Adam bitches, carefully setting the carton and glass back down. Dean just grins at him and makes a grab for the kid's sandwich. "Hey!" he shouts indignantly, yanking his plate out of Dean's reach.

"Less yapping and more eating," Dean tells him. After a moment, he says, "I think I saw a shooting range on my way into town. You up for it, Kid?"

Adam's face is all happy and excited again before he goes back to pretending.

"Yeah, whatever," he replies, taking a bite of his sandwich.

***

Winter 2004. Alamosa, Colorado.

He calls Sam on Christmas Eve, knowing full well the kid's not gonna be in.

Less awkward that way.

It's of the 'Hey, hope you're not doing anything I wouldn't do. . . Oh, wait, you never do anything I would do anyway, you stay-at-home loser. Merry Christmas, Bro' variety, and he's amazed at how distant it all sounds coming out of his mouth. It's wrong that it's gotten this bad, that he can't even talk to his own brother without it coming out like they're on different frequencies now or something.

It's a two-way street, though, and Sam damn well knows that. Knows how it works pretty well, apparently, since he's never returned any of Dean's calls or the few messages he's left. Kid knows, just doesn't give a fuck.

Fine.

He has a few drinks in some dive bar on his way over. No point in hurrying. Not like the kid's gonna care who walks in once he sees it's not Dad. Hell, Dean's probably right up there with the school principal or the check-out lady at 7-11 in terms of emotional attachment. Who's he kidding?

He buys a bottle of Beam and settles his tab, then sludges out to the car. It's a small enough town that most of the streets make sense, so it takes him only about ten minutes to find the place. It's another apartment, just as small and cheap as the previous one.

He tucks the liquor into his duffle, then grabs it and the weapons up and starts walking around to the other side of the complex and up to the second floor where number 12 is. He bangs on the door with his elbow to avoid getting either of the bags wet, and it only takes a few seconds before Adam's opening the door with a big grin.

Jesus.

"Hey, Dean!" he exclaims, backing up to get out of his way as he goes inside. There are Christmas lights thrown around the place haphazardly, and "A Charlie Brown Christmas Special" is flashing by on the TV.

Dean sets his bags down by the couch, then starts shucking off the leather jacket and boots that are all soaked through with melting snow. Adam hangs up the jacket and nudges the boots over to the side, then turns back to Dean with a rapidly wilting smile.

"Hey, kid," Dean offers, and just like that the smile's back in full force.

"He called half an hour before you did," Adam tells him. "Said he was on his way, and should get in sometime in the next hour or two."

Dean nods, trying to hide his surprise. He moves over to the couch and drops down heavily. Laying his head back, he closes his eyes. When he opens them, Charlie Brown is done, but the Grinch is sewing his fake Santa suit, and then the next time he wakes up it's because of the door opening and heavy footsteps stomping snow off against the outside wall.

Dad tromps in, and does a double-take when he sees Dean on the couch. Adam gets up and grabs one of the bags from Dad's hands, while he sits down in a chair and takes off his muddy, snowy, wet boots to leave by the door next to Dean's.

"Dean," Dad says, nodding to him as he passes by and through the room into the hallway, where presumably a couple bedrooms are hiding. He doesn't know, never having been here before, but it seems likely Dad splurged for a two bedroom. One and a couch might have been fine for him, Sam, and Dad, but that was then.

And Adam isn't him, Sam, or Dad.

When Adam comes back into the room, he gives Dean a strange look before heading towards the small kitchen. Then he hears the clink and clatter of dishes and glasses, the squeak of a drawer being pulled out, and the whooshing suction of the fridge being opened and closed. Good kid.

It's Christmas Eve. There's no tree up that he can see, but the lights are. . . well, it's more than he can really remember ever having. Maybe Adam has a part-time job, or something. Hard to imagine Dad going for multi-colored Christmas lights, after all.

He stares at the TV for awhile, then turns his head towards the hallway and finds Dad looking back at him. Dean turns back to the TV and Dad comes and sits on the other side of the couch.

The Whos down in Whoville are singing their happy welcome Christmas song, and Dad chuckles a little.

"I remember you used to love this movie when you were a kid," he says, and Dean shrugs.

"No accounting for taste, I guess," he returns.

Dad's silent until the Grinch is shown carving the Who-Roast Beast.

"Your mother hated this story."

Dean swivels his head towards him quickly, before he can really think twice. Dad's got one elbow resting on the arm of the couch and that hand sort of covering his mouth. He's got that sad look on his face, too, and a sort of hunched-in-ness that Dean thinks might be embarrassment.

Hard to tell with Dad.

Maybe Dad simply said it because it just popped into his head and he's too tired to really filter his thoughts right now. Maybe. But the way he's looking at Dean from the corner of his eye makes him think otherwise. He's trying to get a reaction from him, trying to. . . get him to do something, and using that comment as the bait.

The credits start rolling, which is when Adam comes over and says, "Supper," real quietly. Dean wastes no time getting off the couch, although his ribs sure let him know they don't appreciate the change of position.

"You get banged up again?" Dad asks, and Dean just nods and walks into the kitchen. There's a table with three chairs and food on it, plates, cheap silverware, napkins, two beers and a glass of milk.

He's angry, for some reason, pulling one of the chairs out with a screech of metal on crappy linoleum. Dad comes in first, Adam just on his heels, and he's thankful that Adam set the table. He and Dad are sitting across from each other, with the kid in the middle and a big empty spot on the other side.

He catches himself looking at that spot a lot during the meal, but manages to always turn his thoughts onto his weapons or the Impala or the deciding of whether to head east or west when this is all done. Adam glances at him questioningly, and Dad's still got that assessing look in his eye, but he never catches either of them looking at the blank space at the table. They just don't see it, and somehow that makes him even angrier.

He finishes eating before either of them, and gets up and starts on the dishes. Adam comes over to dry the plates, but Dean shakes his head at him.

"It's actually better to just let them air-dry," he says, scrubbing at the mashed potatoes pot. "More hygienic." Adam moves away, then, setting the towel in his hand on the counter gently. Dean can hear the kid leave the kitchen, but there's still a presence behind him at the table. Dad's not going anywhere, and Dean scrubs and washes those dishes till they're spotless. Once he's done, he wipes the counter, but leaves the table alone.

"I'm gonna go for a run," he says to the room in general, not looking over.

He goes to the bathroom to change, filing away the fact that there are two bath towels on the rack, instead of just one. There's shaving cream and both a bladed and an electric razor on the counter. There are two toothbrushes.

Adam's leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom when he comes out. He looks expectant, or something, but Dean couldn't care less at this point. He brushes past the kid and pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt. Opening the door, he rushes out and gives in to a good slam as he closes it again. He jogs down the stairs then stands and stretches out in the parking lot, where a space clear of snow is left after a car pulls out.

Then, he jumps over the slush and a drift and starts off fast. Taking the corner out of the complex a little too quickly, he slides and has to grab onto a bus stop sign in order to avoid hitting the ice on his ass. He's about three blocks away when his ribs really start to make breathing hard, but by the next one he's forced it to the back of his mind and has even succeeded in increasing his pace a little.

He comes across a park, and decides to head on through it and then turn back. The snow is deceptive, though, and it drifts up in great waves around playground equipment and sculptures. He's so focused on keeping his speed up and ignoring the pain in his chest that he forgets rule number four.

'Always be aware of your surroundings.'

It's evidently only like three or four stairs, but the snow covers them and makes a drift from the bottom to the top. It looks all one level, and that's how he takes it.

He trips and falls, shoving his hands out at the last second to try and protect his face from hitting the pavement.

"Fuck!" he shouts, moving back into sitting and looking at his palms.

He's bleeding pretty good, and wheezing, and once he realizes that. . . that's when the pounding in his chest really registers.

"God," he lets out, hating how much like a whimper it sounds. He puts a hand to his sternum, only realizing after a few seconds that now he's got blood all over himself and the pain's still there. He's sitting on his ass in a snow drift, in a park in Ala-fucking-mosa, Colorado.

And that's when Sammy pops into his head and starts laughing at him. This is when Sam would chuckle and point and stick out his hand to help him up. This is when he'd tell Dean to turn his sweatshirt inside out so he doesn't look like a serial killer, and would mock him all the way back about how it looked like he'd pissed himself with the way the snow had seeped in all over his pants.

Dean slowly gets to his feet. When he's standing, he looks down and sees he's skinned his knees and legs too. There's blood on his left leg, but none on his right. He turns around and slowly climbs up the four stairs that caused this whole mess. Pausing at the top, he struggles out of his sweatshirt and turns it inside out, then bites his lip putting it back on. The movement irritates his ribs again, bruised and broken from that goddamn dryad three days ago.

Who knew tree nymphs could be so touchy about their. . . trees?

He starts walking, but glances back at one point to where he fell, and then to the whole white-enshrouded park itself.

The snow glistens and glitters in the moonlight, in the low glow from the street lamps. It's cold and dark, and all the trees look dead and ominous. Dean turns around and starts walking back to the apartment.

He does not whisper "Sam."

He doesn't.

***

Summer 2005. San Diego, California.

It's August, and true to form California's like an oven constantly set on broil. It sucks because there's no AC in the Impala and sticking to the seats in bumper-to-bumper traffic is just about the suckiest way to spend an afternoon. It's awesome, though, because everyone around him is just as miserable and most people out and about are half-naked and glistening with sweat.

He'd made a quick stop down in TJ for Dad, got some stuff one of the locals apparently hooks the old man up with periodically, and is just now starting the drive up north.

He's in California. It's a given he's gonna make a certain stop in a certain college town around a certain area of apartments, never mind the fact he's almost eight hours away.

He makes the Palo Alto city limits around dawn, and is just sliding past Sam's address two minutes after seven. Sam's on the second floor, and Dean thinks he can tell which apartment it is even just looking from the street. There are plants showing through one of the windows on the left. That's not conclusive evidence by any means, but. . . somehow, for some strange reason, he's sure that one with the green ivy and the geraniums is Sam's. And his. . . girlfriend's.

He parks down the block and ditches the jacket and over shirt, trying to blend in as much as possible. When he gets back to their place, he walks under the window and around the side. There's no fire escape, but the windows from the first floor apartment make decent enough foot and handholds climbing up. He takes a peek into the first window he comes to, and is grateful when it turns out to be an unoccupied kitchen. Sidling to the next sill, he does a quick look-around to make sure he's not been spotted by one of the neighbors, then stretches up again to take stock of the place.

At least his back is to him. Could've been worse.

Dean ducks down so fast, he nearly loses purchase on the ledge and falls. Nearly. He waits to a count of ten, then slowly peeks over again. Sam's still facing the other way, bent over something at a table. There are books scattered every which way, and at least some things never change. Where other kids these days probably rely solely on the internet and that damned lying Wikipedia, Dean's glad Sammy still appreciates the grit and reality of a hardcover book. He doesn't much care for research, himself, but looking through books always just felt more productive than surfing the web, not to mention more reliable. If it's in a book, chances are someone somewhere has had the job of fact-checking it, and if Dean's gonna have to do research, he damn well wants to do it right the first time.

After awhile, watching Sam frustrate and psych himself out over whatever homework he's doing gets pretty boring. The kid's hair is still too long, and that's another thing that'll never change. The day Sam willingly cuts his hair is the day Dean willingly listens to a Celine-fucking-Dion album.

***

Summer 2005. Salt Lake City, Utah.

The meet is scheduled for two, but he blows into town early and decides to catch a bite at a nearby diner before heading over to the designated motel. The summer's just about over, so as far as he knows Adam's still traveling with Dad, due to start school in South Dakota next week. He hasn't seen the kid since Christmas, but every once in awhile he'll get a call and they'll talk. Well, it's more like a mutual bitching fest, but there're some jokes and ribbing in there too.

He never asks what Dad's doing, and Adam's stopped offering up the information. He's a smart kid, probably right on par with Sammy, and he catches on quick.

The waitress is good, not a looker really, but she knows what she's doing and her smile's a knockout. The food's pretty decent too, and he's about halfway through his fries when his cell starts ringing.

"Yeah?"

There's a pause, then Adam's on the other end, asking him if he's met up with Dad and if they're coming back or hunting something and should he go ahead and deadbolt the motel room or wait.

"What?" is the first thing he manages to get in, and he wishes it didn't have that worried/confused tone coloring it. Adam stops talking real abruptly, and there's another gap where they're both probably mentally backing up the conversation.

"Dad's with you, isn't he?" Adam finally asks. It's his voice that gets Dean's attention first, then a second later the whole problem with that question registers. But his voice. . .

Kid's had a shitty past couple of years, and Dean doesn't wanna ever have to tell him how scared he sounded just then.

"Adam," he says instead, using the calmest of calm voices, "where are you right now? The Elms?"

"Yeah," Kid replies, drawing it out. "Room 11," he adds after a moment.

"Right. Well, I'll be over there in about five minutes, so just sit tight."

He can hear Adam take in a deep breath like he's gonna say something, but eventually the kid just lets the air out.

"Adam?" he prompts, sliding out of the booth and reaching back for his wallet.

"Yeah, I'll keep an eye out for you," Kid answers, then disconnects.

Dean slips two tens underneath the bill and, with a wave to the waitress, strides out to the car. The motel's just three blocks away, so when he pulls into the parking lot it's with roughly two minutes to spare. Adam's sitting out on the curb in front of room 11, so he pulls the Impala right up there and turns her off. Getting out, he finally acknowledges the fact that the rest of the place is deserted, empty of cars and probably people too.

He's got a very bad feeling about this.

"Hey," he says, getting out, walking over and leaning back against the front bumper. Adam's face is blank, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He has a habit of hiding his emotions for awhile, hoarding them almost, and then letting them all out at once in a fiery burst of teenage angst and depress-itude. Just cos he's currently doing his best impersonation of a statue doesn't mean the kid ain't angry.

Or scared.

"So," Dean says, crossing his arms and trying to look unconcerned and not pissed off or worried at all. "When'd he leave, what'd he say, how've things been goin' -- you know, full report." Adam looks up at him finally, and Dean gives him a smile.

Kid sighs. "We were in Iowa two days ago. He took out another werewolf. Then we drove here. He checked us in, I hauled in my stuff like I always do, and he said he was gonna go ahead and meet you." Here, Adam's eyes narrow, and he looks more like what his mother must've than he does their father. It's funny, because even though it's impossible for Dean to ever forget the fact that he and Adam don't have the same mother, sometimes. . . he kind of forgets.

His mother was killed too, though, killed by something evil and Other. And most of the time Dean even manages not to be insanely jealous of the kid for his perfect 12+ years of having a mother. After all, he'd had four years, himself. Four years was still four years. Sammy'd only gotten six months.

"And when was this?" he asks, turning his head away and surveying the lot. "What time did he leave?"

"About two hours ago."

"Shit," Dean says before he can catch it. He looks back at Adam and that's when the kid decides to smile at him. It's that sad-ass smile he gets on his face from time to time. "You try calling him?" he asks, knowing even before the affirmative nod Adam gives him that it's a stupid question.

After that, they both stay out there for at least a half hour without saying another word. When he pushes away from the Impala, going back around and digging out his stuff from the trunk, Dean takes a good look at the kid and kind of marvels at how much he's grown in just. . . eight months.

Adam's into the long-limbed, coltish stage of puberty, where nothing ever fits quite right and clumsy is the name of the game. He's got good boots on, though, and by the looks of it he's packing something in the back waistband of his jeans.

Kid's almost 15 years old; Dean feels about 50.

He hauls himself and the two duffles close to the door, waiting for Adam to produce the key and unlock it for him. When the kid swings it open and goes on inside, Dean follows without making another visual sweep of the parking lot. He knows why Adam sat out there so long, constantly looking around at the first rumble of an engine nearby, but damn if he's gonna do the same thing.

Dean likes to think of himself as a realist, and he'd stood out there only until he was pretty sure Adam was ready to go back inside. Sure enough, none of Dad's stuff is inside and he chalks that slip of observation up to hesitance on Adam's part. Kid's still getting used to being around Dad, still trying to get his footing in this kind of life. It's not his fault Dad took advantage of that and pulled a fast one on him.

Happens to them all at one point or another.

"Well, looks like it's just you and me for awhile," he tells the kid's back. "You got any shopping to do before the new term starts?" and Adam whirls around in a huff, disbelief and manly disgust written all over his face at the mere suggestion of going shopping. "I'll take that as a 'no' then."

"I hate shopping," Kid says, and Dean gives in and chuckles.

"I wouldn't ever 've guessed," he quips, and Adam's eyes narrow again, but this time he's only pretending to be angry. At least, Dean assumes he's only pretending. He shakes his head and sits down on the bed, taking a load off and scratching an itch on the back of his head. "Like a freakin' clone sometimes, man," he murmurs, and winces when he looks up and sees Adam's questioning look.

"Who is?' the kid asks, puzzled.

"Sam hates shopping too. Couldn't ever get that kid in a store to buy anything for him. Managed to convince a manager one time to let me take shoes out to the parking lot, so Sammy could try 'em on, and after that, it got easier, but he still pulls a face every time you even mention needing something from the store."

Adam's eyes are all big now, wide and nervous. Kid slowly sits down on the other bed, and it's when he starts chewing at the corner of his mouth that Dean realizes this must be a pretty awkward situation for him.

"Where's he at now?" Adam asks quietly, hesitantly, eyes on his hands and the floor and anywhere but Dean.

"He's. . . at college. Stanford." He waits, and like clockwork Adam glances up after about ten seconds of silence. "Full ride," Dean adds. "Boy's like a genius or something." And when he smiles this time, Adam returns it.

He glosses over Sam's departure, instead telling funny -- and, for Sam, embarrassing -- stories. He talks and talks, and it isn't until Adam's stomach growls loudly that he realizes how late it's gotten. It's half past seven in the evening, and the kid probably hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast this morning.

"Hey," Dean says, standing up and cracking his neck to either side. "You ready for some chow, Kid?"

"Yeah, sure, old man," Adam replies with a big grin. "Want me to get your walker for ya?"

"Oh, you're in for it now," he warns, darting forward only to miss him by less than an inch. "I'll have you know, in my day young whippersnappers showed their elders more respect!" Dean makes another grab, but this time he's foiled by Adam slamming the door in his face. There's a loud "HA!" from outside, and Dean laughs.

***

He takes Adam to the Grand Canyon before the long trip back up to Bobby's.

He doesn't say anything about the way the kid tears up at one point, and when he finally does drop the kid off at the Salvage Yard, he feels guilty.

He just doesn't know if it's for the way Dad treated the kid by ditching him, or the way Dean feels like he's betrayed Sam by talking about him with their younger brother.

***

Fall 2005. Embarcadero Rd, Palo Alto, CA.

He finishes the coffee, then snaps the lid back on and stashes the empty cup in the passenger side foot well. It's dark out, and it's a Friday night, and the fall semester is in full swing. He's amazed he doesn't hit any of the supposed geniuses as he drives. People just refuse to get out of the way, walking and staggering drunkenly in the streets, whole groups of college-age kids teetering and tottering this way and that. It's a fucking circus, and he's about one fucktard away from rolling the window down and cussing 'em out when he finally reaches Sam's block.

The lights are off, but he just climbs up the window sill and scrabbles his way inside. The damned potted plants are right there and he manages to knock one off with a crash. Well, hopefully a noise that loud is enough to get the kid outta bed and out here. He can't wait till morning, but going into the bedroom and shaking Sammy awake isn't all that appealing either. Kid'd probably stab him and wouldn't that be peachy?

He walks around a little, getting a good feel for what the place is like. It's easy to see a chick lives here, but that a dude is here also is a little trickier. Apparently some things don't change cos the only things that scream 'Sammy is here' are certain books, empty coffee cups and the occasional scribbled note in the kid's handwriting. He'd guess everything in here, from the knick-knacks to the furniture, was picked out by the girlfriend. Even the food in the fridge is girly. Even the beer.

There's the creaking of floorboards and he almost has time to smile before there's an arm grabbing him and holding him while the other whips around to try and punch him in the side of the head.

Not so fast there, Sammy boy.

He gets the giant on his back, flailing around like a turtle and scrunching his face up when he realizes who's pinned him, the dope. Then the kid manages to flip him, and that smug smirk on his face makes him look like Dad.

"Get off me," he orders.

Sam taps his leg twice, then retreats and offers him a hand up. He takes it, and straight off launches into the situation. Sam's face gets angrier and more put-out as he goes.

Then suddenly the light's on, and Sammy's girl is standing there. He shuts his mouth, cutting off his sentence, and Sam struts right over to the girl and pulls her close. She's a looker, and wearing practically nothing, and this is when he should hit on her and get Sammy to pull that bitch face that's hilarious.

But this is just so ridiculous that he rolls his eyes instead and shrugs.

"So you comin', or what?" he asks.

Sam puts his shoulders back and gives his head a little shake. Kid's not saying no, just showing his utter contempt. What really pisses Dean off is that he's doing it in front of the girl, like he's never heard of manners or family business. Kid better not be pulling the same kind of crap with other people, because Dean sure as hell taught him better than this.

Just cos you're not honest doesn't mean you gotta be rude.

"I'm sure everything's fine, Dean," Sam says. "He'll stumble home in a few days."

"Can we talk alone?" Dean asks him, but Sam just tightens his arm around his girlfriend.

"No, whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Jess." And damn if he doesn't lift his chin in that same stubborn way they all do.

Sam's eyes are hazel, and his hair is dark. He's got that crooked tilt to his mouth and dimples in his cheeks, and he's freakishly tall. The pitch of his voice gets lower when he's pissed off, and he always, always tilts his head up when he's being all offended.

It's weird to see more Dad in the kid now than when he'd taken off, like the longer apart, the more alike they become.

He's tired of all of this, and for a second he actually contemplates telling Sam he was the last resort.

"Well, nice seein' ya, then," he fires off, moving to the right and taking the long way to their front door. No point in going back out the window and letting 'Jess' know just how fucked up this whole situation really is.

"Dean, wait!" Sam calls out to him when he's halfway down the stairs. He comes trampling after him, and Dean turns around. "This is serious, isn't it?" he asks, quietly.

"Would I be here if it wasn't?" he counters. "In two years, I haven't bothered you, haven't asked you for a thing."

Sam sighs, but he nods his head. "Yeah. Wait here," he says. "I'll be ready in a few minutes." Then he turns around and tramps back up to his apartment.

***

Sam just smiles when Dean says they made a good team. He doesn't get the hint, though, or maybe he's just ignoring it.

He keeps on staring at the main entrance to Sam's apartment complex even after the kid's gone in. A light goes on in one of the windows on the second floor, and Dean imagines Sam walking around up there. Probably dropping his bag right next to the door like he always used to, and going straight for food.

When the lights stay on, but smoke starts coming out, Dean jumps out so fast he forgets to turn the car off, leaves the keys inside and the engine running. He busts that front door open and then takes the stairs three at a time. Sam's locked the door to their apartment, and Dean has to stop and pick it before he can get inside.

Sam, on the bed, fire crawling downward. There's the blonde woman up on the ceiling like always, but Dad's not here. Sam's not a baby, and he's screaming Jess' name.

That's how he knows it's not a dream. Sam never says anything in the dreams, just looks up at him in terror. And it's never been Jess on the ceiling.

He drags Sammy outta there and from the curb across the street they watch the whole apartment go up. Sam's not shaking, but so still Dean's gotta keep a hand on him just to make sure he's still there. Firemen and police cars come, Dean moves the Impala and nearly rams another car because he keeps checking on Sam, and all the people from the surrounding complexes wander out into the street. A couple of old ladies with curlers in their hair stand next to some fratboy wanna-be's, and half-naked coeds huddle close to each other in the chilly air. Eventually, the five-oh's figure out which apartment went up first, and someone points their way. Officer Ryans takes their statements. Dean's amazed Sam can even talk, let alone lie through his teeth.

It's when the people start leaving that Sam shrugs off Dean's hand. He walks over to where the car is, waiting there until Dean catches up. Then the kid taps the trunk, and Dean goes ahead and pops it. Sam reaches down and slides Dean's duffle over. He lifts the false bottom and goes straight for the shotgun, starts loading it right there.

"We've got work to do," he says suddenly, dropping the gun back in the cache and slamming the trunk hard.

He doesn't know what Sam had planned with that shotgun, but when the kid strides around to the passenger door he doesn't even hesitate.

Just unlocks the car, gets in and unlocks Sammy's door, and then settles in for the long drive to Colorado.

Sam doesn't say anything, and he never dozes off. Dean doesn't even know Jess' last name, or anything about her besides what he'd gathered from his brief search around their apartment Friday night.

He pulls into a gas station at one point, and Sam's still staring out the window. He fills up the tank, goes in to pay and take a leak, grabs some food and a couple drinks, and when he comes back Sam's still staring out the window.

His phone never rings, and he doesn't make any calls. He and Sam just sit there in silence as the scenery changes.

***

Winter 2006. I-90 W Interchange.

His phone starts vibrating just as he finishes merging onto I-90 from I-29. He flips the phone open to glance at the callback number and huffs out a chuckle. Luckily Sam's dozing, or else Dean'd have to come up with some sort of an explanation for who's calling. Bad enough they're already heading up this way. Sam doesn't need to know anything more until they get there.

Besides, he most likely wouldn't know Bobby's phone number offhand anyway. He never had to call it.

Dean slips the cell back into his coat pocket and keeps his eyes on the road. He'd missed the kid's birthday and then Christmas too, stuck on the road with Sam after icing another ghost, literally. And with Dad still missing. . .

Well, it's no wonder the kid's probably freaking out. One day between them and St. Louis, and that story is no doubt running national by now. Bobby'd splurged for cable a few months back, claiming he was tired of watching only PBS. All three of them knew it was for Adam, though.

Must be kinda worrying seeing your brother up there on the nightly news, accused of committing multiple murders. Oh, and the whole dead thing. Adam worries himself sick over the smallest of things at the best of times.

And that's the reason they're driving up there. Timing's good, as good as it can be, situation like this. Plus, they need to lie low for awhile, let all the commotion and the plastering of Dean's mug on all the major news networks settle down and die.

Kill three birds with one stone with this trip: make the introductions between Sam and Adam, reassure the kid that ain't no one else abandoning him, and take a well-deserved load off.

Sure. That's how it'll play out. Just that easy too.

***

"I oughta gut you like a worm," Bobby grunts out. Then he turns to Sam. "And, you. Get up here." He gestures with his hand, and Sam shoots Dean a puzzled look before carefully climbing up onto the porch.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam ventures, hands in his pockets and slouch in full effect.

"Hey, yourself. How's the weather up there?" he quips, and Dean laughs when Sam's posture goes all rigid. "Oh, stop it! Only teasing ya. Come here," he says again, this time dragging Sam into a hug. There's much back-slapping and then Bobby lets the yeti go and plants his hands on his hips. He looks dead-serious, but Dean's not so sure. Bobby's got the king of all poker faces. He even puts Dad's to shame and that's saying something.

"Boy. . . " Bobby starts, in that pissed off voice again.

"You oughta gut me like a worm?" Dean supplies.

"Get the fuck up here," the old man says instead. "It's colder 'n a witch's left titty out here, and I'm sick of looking at that sad ass face o' yours." He drops his hands from his sides and beckons with his right.

Dean tromps up the stairs and pats the guy on the shoulder before he can get The Hug too.

"So where's the kid?" he asks instead, watching Bobby's eyes widen and dart over Dean's shoulder.

"What kid?" comes Sammy's voice, one step away from suspicious.

"School," Bobby answers, shaking off Dean's hand and moving away. He jerks the screen door open quickly and pushes the other in, disappearing inside the house like a rabbit on the run.

Dean chuckles, but then turns and sees Sam.

"What kid?" Sammy repeats, this time sounding not only suspicious, but betrayed too.

Dean sighs, takes a deep breath, then goes over to lean up against the house.

"Adam," he says, meeting Sammy's eyes evenly. "He's living here with Bobby for the time being. Seemed as good a place as any." Dean lets his eyes wander. "S'pose he could've gone with Pastor Jim, but. . . " He shrugs.

"And just who is 'Adam?'" And something about the way he asks makes Dean look up at him again.

"Huh?" he responds.

Sam jumps in there right quick with, "Who's this kid staying with Bobby, and what does he have to do with us? With you?" he adds, raising his eyebrows like what he's just said is significant. Stupid lawyer wannabe.

"Quit all your sidestepping and just ask, man."

"Is Adam your. . . son?" he asks gently.

He can't help it. He laughs. Dean laughs and then when he takes in the expression on Sam's face, he laughs harder.

"You know," Dean says, laughter subsiding, "I may be older than you, dude, but I'm not that old. Much as I would've liked to have scored when I was 11, the answer is 'No.' Kid was born in 1990, Sam. It's pretty much physically impossible for him to be my son. Thank God."

"So, what then?" Sam demands, barreling in like a bull now that Dean's made him feel foolish. "What's so important about this kid? Who the hell is he?"

Dean meets Sam's eyes again. "He's Dad's," he says. Sam's brow crinkles up and his mouth drops open, but Dean just keeps talking even after Sam's turned away and walked over to the railing. "Some nurse up in Minnesota, after a hunt. She, uh-- she was attacked. Killed. So Dad went and picked the kid up and-- and then he went and disappeared."

"Our half-brother?" Sam whispers.

Dean shrugs, even though Sam can't see him from where he's all but draped over Bobby's front porch railing. "Yeah, brother," he says. "Like I said, he was born in 1990, uh, September 29th, so he's-- "

"Fifteen," Sam finishes. "Fifteen fucking years old."

They're silent for awhile. Dean can hear Bobby inside, moving and banging pots around in the kitchen. He doesn't know if the old man's making noise deliberately, or actually cooking something. Doesn't matter either way.

Dean checks his watch. Three o'clock in the afternoon here.

School 'll be out soon.

***

Eventually, Sam pushes away from the rail and stomps back down the stairs. He starts off towards the car, and Dean calls out, "Where ya goin'?" trying for casual, but failing miserably.

"Bringing the stuff in," Sam answers coldly.

Great. He follows, and between the two of them there's not much to carry. Dean doesn't know for sure, but he figures Adam probably takes a bus to and from school. He checks his watch again, guesses they probably have another half hour at least before the kid makes an appearance.

Bobby points to the living room/library, and they dump their stuff next to the old beat-up couch. Sam has the weapons bag, so he sits down and carefully starts pulling out the ones that need cleaning. Dean leaves him to it, knowing Sam'll just start ranting and shooting off at the mouth if someone bugs him before he's processed everything sufficiently.

"So how'd it go?" Bobby asks quietly, one eye on the water boiling at the stove, and the other taking in Sam on the couch.

Dean shrugs, reaches out and nabs a peeled carrot before Bobby can smack his hand. He munches a little, then says, " 'bout as well I thought it would, honestly. Sam's. . . well, he's different than he used to be. Reacts differently."

"You're telling me," Bobby agrees, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring whatever's cooking in that boiling water. Dean grabs a piece of celery while Bobby's back's still to him, the man saying, "Thought I'd have to get some water ready like last time. Throw it on him to cool him down."

Dean huffs, smiling a little in remembrance. "That the time when I told him I'd loaned out one of his books and forgotten to get it back before we left?"

Bobby nods, glancing back at him. "Yep, that's the time. Nearly broke my porch, the two of you rolling and slamming around. Like a coupla rowdy dogs."

"You sure thought so at the time too," Dean responds. "Got the frickin' hose and aimed it right at us!"

Bobby turns away again, but Dean can see his shoulders shaking. Smug old bastard.

They're quiet for a moment, in which time Dean manages to filch another celery stick and two carrots, but then Bobby's dropping the spoon down noisily on the counter to his right and laughing out loud. He braces himself on the counter, and Dean glances through the doorway to where Sam's looking up from working on the 9mm Taurus. Dean smiles ruefully at Sam, nodding his head towards Bobby and making the circling motion at his temple with his finger that's the universal sign for 'Guy's fuckin' nuts.'

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to cleaning the gun, but there's a small smile there, and Dean will take whatever he can get these days.

"Jesus," Dean exclaims, turning back to Bobby and shaking his head like he's disappointed. "You gonna laugh all day or get cookin'?"

"Oh, shut your trap, boy," Bobby retorts, gruffly. Dean grins at him when he looks back and Bobby cracks a smile too.

"It wasn't that funny," Dean says.

"The hell it wasn't!" Bobby argues. " 's not every day I get to blast you boys in the face with a jet of water. Besides, you're the one who brought it up."

"Am not!" Dean denies. "You asked first."

"Yeah, well-- "

They're interrupted by the back door opening. Adam comes slamming inside, dropping his backpack on the floor with a loud thud and coming straight over to stand in front of Dean.

"Nice of you to fucking call," are the first words out of the kid's mouth.

"Nice fucking mouth you got there, Kid," Dean retorts.

"Fuck you," Adam says.

"After you, Princess."

They're both still for a moment, then Dean's opening his arms and Adam's wrapping his own around Dean and they're doing some manly hugging and back-slapping of their own.

" 'bout time you showed up," Adam says close to his ear.

"No need to worry," Dean replies, equally soft. " 'sides, I had company."

Adam pulls back, and Dean drops his arms when the kid does. Kid gets that confused/bewildered expression on his face, and Dean almost laughs out loud.

He looks exactly like Sammy did half an hour ago.

Dean steps back, getting out of the kid's line of sight into the other room. Sam's still perched on the raggedy old sofa, but no way is he doing anything but staring right back at Adam.

"Sam, meet Adam," Dean says into the silence. "Adam, this is Sammy."

***

It always comes down to Bobby's house. Somehow that was always where Dad left them for the longer stays. And that'd always sorta surprised Dean at the time, that Dad would drop them off with gruff Bobby rather than, say, Pastor Jim or Amelia Khan and her big-ass family.

Now, though, it makes more sense. Dean's gleaned more about Bobby's past, and while Jim's a pastor, he's not a father. And Amelia Khan. . . well, Dean's pretty sure Dad was looking to keep him away from Amelia's four daughters, not to mention the culture shock staying with that family would have been. Five females in one house, with only Amelia's husband as any kind of buffer? Throw in Dean and Sammy, and you've got a sure-fire recipe for disaster.

'Course, back then, Sam probably would've fit right in with those girls. Kid had sure as hell looked like one, ridiculous hair just the tip of the iceberg.

Now he thinks the old man is a helluva lot wiser than he gave him credit for. Bobby dotes on kids, spoils 'em rotten, and banks even more points by acting all curmudgeonly about it.

Dean can't remember seeing the man smile so much as he does now. Adam's been a good influence on him.

It's stew on the menu tonight, and no one will ever accuse Bobby Singer of being forgetful. Dude remembers everything, right down to Sam needing to crunch crackers into everything and Adam's love of drinking milk at dinner. He also gives Dean the outside chair without a word, even though they both know that's where Bobby usually sits.

Adam's not normally a nervous talker, but you wouldn't believe that tonight. Kid's chattering about everything nonstop and Dean hates to think it, but maybe he's finally getting old. . . coz he doesn't remember high school ever being that hectic. Sounds like a freakin' circus.

Adam eventually winds down, and Kid's been nattering so much his bowl is still more than half full while the rest of them are all pretty much done. Sam's scooping up his last bit of stew-flavored cracker mush, while Dean and Bobby are both nursing their respective beers.

"So, Sam," Bobby ventures. "What'd you study at that fancy school o' yours?"

Dean takes another sip of beer, and pins his eyes to the scarred wood of Bobby's kitchen table. There's a clink as Sam sets his spoon down in his bowl, and the low sounds of Adam chewing and swallowing, scooping, chewing and swallowing, scooping. . .

"Um, I was pre-law actually," Sam says. Bobby chuckles, and Dean can feel it when Sam smiles a little. "Yeah, I know. Who woulda guessed, huh?"

"Way you and your old man fight?" Bobby adds. "No surprise there. I used to laugh my ass off at all the ways you tried to get out of things."

"Yeah, well." Sam doesn't say anything else, but Dean still keeps his eyes off him. Then he hears Sam shift in his seat, and ask, "So, Adam, has Bobby made you scrounge around the lot for parts yet?"

There's a moment of silence, and then the clanking of a spoon as Adam drops his in shock.

"You mean he's done that before?!" Kid says all insulted-like.

Sam laughs and Bobby too, and Dean cracks a smile coz it is pretty damn funny. Adam huffs indignantly, and when Dean looks over the kid's glaring at Bobby full-force.

"Never gets old," Bobby muses before taking another sip of his beer. Sam gives another little chortle before searching out Dean's eyes across the table.

"Don't feel bad," Sam eventually offers, receiving a milder version of Adam's evil glare in response. "He pulled that one on me and Dean, what, the second time we stayed here? I was out there for like two hours, searching through all that junk. Finally I come in, all embarrassed because of course I'm empty-handed, and what do I see?" Sam stops, and they're all hanging on his every word. He looks at Dean again, and smiles that dimpled smile of his.

Bobby gives a little nod before chuckling into his beer some more. Dean knows the old buzzard remembers the next part of the story as well as he and Sam do, but he doesn't say anything.

Sam turns to Adam again, leaning towards him like it's just the two of them.

"There's this pile of parts, some rusty and looking completely worthless, but some that's actually in pretty good condition." Sam illustrates a heap with his hands, and Adam's just eating it up, his stew completely forgotten and a look of rapture on his face. "And there's Dean," Sam says, dropping his hands back down to the table top, "sitting on the ground next to his pile and grinning that irritating, smug little grin of his."

Bobby laughs again, nodding, and Sam keeps smiling happily. Adam's face goes all puzzled, flicking to glance over at Dean before quickly going back to Sam.

"He found stuff?" Adam asks. "But it's all just junk!"

"That's what I thought," Bobby agrees, grinning over at Dean. "But damn if that smartass punk didn't manage to scrounge up every last useful bit lying around this joint. Took me weeks to organize," he adds, draining the last bit of liquid from his bottle and setting it down with a gentle thump on the table.

Suddenly all three of them are looking at him, so Dean just shrugs and takes another long pull at his beer, finishing it off and plunking it down right next to Bobby's.

"I'm good with cars," he says, when they keep on staring. Bobby snorts before getting to his feet and taking his bowl over to the sink, and Dean jumps at the opening. He follows the man over, rolling up his sleeves in preparation for doing the dishes.

Bobby and Sam start clearing the table and stacking the dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink. Adam's still working on what must be some cold-ass stew by now. It doesn't take him long to finish, though, because pretty soon there's another bowl and spoon being placed gently in the sink with their fellows and a pair of skinny hands are sneaking a dishcloth under the tap. Adam wrings out the cloth, then moves back to the table and wipes it off.

When Dean glances around after finishing their bowls and utensils and before starting in on the pots and pans, he sees it's just the two of them in the kitchen now. He can hear Bobby's voice in the other room and knows Sam's in there too.

Adam comes back to the sink, and quickly rinses the cloth out before hanging it on its nearby peg once more. Kid stays close, leaning back against the counter, but not making any move for the dishtowel like he might have once. They've settled into a routine. Dean washes the dishes, and Adam hangs around while he does it.

It's weird, but he's used to it. It's familiar.

"So school's goin' okay then?" Dean asks, swiping the soapy sponge over a chopping knife before repeating the process on another one and another after that.

Adam shrugs, his arms already crossed over his chest. "It's okay," he agrees. "Nothing big."

"No love interests?" Dean teases, and Kid leans over to shove at his arm with a grin.

"Dude!" he scolds, and Dean chuckles.

"What, no fish biting at the line yet? Come on, man, you've gotta represent. No brother of mine is going to go through high school without gettin' some."

Adam pulls a face at him, scooting away down the counter as though repulsed. Dean just chuckles again as he finishes cleaning the dishes and prepares to rinse them all off.

"So you were a big player then?" Adam asks after a moment. Dean glances at the kid's face, but there's really no emotion there to help him.

Dean shrugs as he turns on the water and washes the soap off all the spoons, sticking them in the drainer on the counter and moving on to the bowls.

"Yeah, I guess I was," he replies. "Never got any complaints, though," he adds, lifting his eyebrows and meeting Adam's eyes briefly.

Adam snorts, and Dean goes back to focusing on the dishes. Suddenly there's laughter from the other room, and Dean can't help but smile at the sound.

"He's nice," Adam abruptly says. It's quiet and almost embarrassed, and Dean has to force himself to keep his eyes on the dishes and not look at Adam. It takes guts to say something like that, and he doesn't want to make it any worse or more awkward than it already is.

So he nods. "Yeah, he is," Dean agrees. "He's a good kid."

Adam's breath huffs out, his version of a chuckle, so Dean knows it's okay to look now.

"What?" he asks, finishing the last of the dishes, the cutting board, and delicately balancing it atop the stack in the drainer.

"'Kid?'" Adam repeats back to him, and Dean just shrugs. "He's like 23, isn't he?"

"22," Dean automatically corrects. "And so what? He's still a kid to me."

"Awww, Precious," Kid gushes, setting a hand on Dean's shoulder and patting him. "Ain't that just the sweetest thang!" he says in a fake Texas accent.

Dean seizes the kid by his wrist and pulls him straight into a headlock. Adam squawks and starts hitting him, but pretty damn ineffectually. Dean just laughs at him and starts walking them both towards the other room.

"Dean! Lemme go!" Kid wheezes as they round the corner. "Aaagh! Lemme go!"

Sam's perched on Bobby's desk, with the man himself sitting on the sofa. They both turn to look when Dean hauls Adam into the room, and it's Sam who breaks first, like always.

"What'd he do?" Sammy asks, smiling. Bobby just rolls his eyes like he's seen it all before, which he probably has, come to think of it. He smiles easily enough, though, as Adam keeps on wriggling and batting at Dean with his hands.

Dean looks down at the kid and raises his eyebrows. Then he releases him and steps back as Adam goes crashing to the floor, huffing because he's out of breath and glaring at Dean like he's a cat that just had its tail stepped on.

Dean laughs out loud.

"Go on," he prompts him. "Tell 'em what you called me."

Kid glares back at him, but eventually grits out, "Precious."

Bobby cackles in delight, slapping his knee and taking his hat off to push his hair back before slapping the old thing right back on and laughing some more. When Dean looks over at Sam, while moving away from the kid before he gets tackled, he sees him with his hand over his mouth and a face so red it's gotta be painful. Sammy's probably trying to keep the peace, get off on the right foot with the kid by not laughing at him the first day, but he should know by now it's a moot point.

Adam's still glaring at Dean and Bobby, but when he looks at Sam doing his best not to laugh, it's all hero worship.

Good. Mission Accomplished.

***

Summer 2006. 7 Miles South of Lawrence County, South Dakota.

Neither of them is saying anything, but it's still loud as hell in the car. Dean's clenching his hands so tight around the steering wheel, his arms hurt. His jaw hurts too, but damned if he can stop gritting his teeth for any length of time without finding himself right back to doing it a minute later.

It's loud, and silent as the grave. Even Sam's thinking is grating on Dean's nerves.

Bobby's turnoff finally appears up ahead and Dean barely slows down before jerking the wheel and spinning them down it. They pull up in the Salvage Yard to a wave of dirt and flying pebbles. As they both climb out of the car, one of the dogs jumps to its feet and starts barking its head off. Normally Dean would come up slow and easy, hunch down and do the whole go-ahead-and-sniff-me-to-make-sure-I'm-one-of-the-good-guys bit, but not right the fuck now.

The fucking Demon's on their asses and Dad's who the hell knows where and everyone around them is dying in pools of blood. They'd left the phone on and there'd been no more calls, though, so Dean's hoping against hope that means something. Sam had turned the volume up to the highest setting, like they'd run the risk of somehow not hearing it ring in the dead silence of the Impala.

The dog's barking at them, and that bitch hasn't called up again to gloat and threaten, so those two better be here and safe or else Dean's gonna--

Sam bumps his elbow, and Dean turns his head a little so he can see him out of his peripheral. Sam nods his head to the side and makes the sign to split up. Dean nods and points that he's going inside, and Sammy taps him on the shoulder before carefully starting to pick his way around back to the shop proper.

The front door's unlocked, which means one or both of them are here. It's July, so Dean's betting on both. Kid doesn't go to summer school, and Bobby doesn't hunt that much anymore. Not with Adam living here.

Dean quietly pulls the screen door open and slowly turns the knob on the wood door beyond it. Bracing the screen so it shuts silently behind him, he then goes back to a two-hand hold on his gun and moves farther into the house.

There's no sign anything's gone down here, and slowly Dean stands up and relaxes. . . just a bit. Sink's clear of dishes when he goes through the kitchen, and there isn't any blood visible.

So, chances are, Adam and Bobby are outside working on some junker and Sam's found 'em and they've still got time before--

"Dean?"

He whirls around, gun up, cocked, and aimed before his mind catches up with his reflexes. It's the kid of course, and Dean's over and across the room before Adam's even started to drop his hands back down to his sides. They're still ridiculously high in the air, like Dean's some cop in a movie yelling 'Freeze.'

"What the hel-- ?" Adam starts, but Dean's pulling the kid close and ends up with an "Unh!" when he grips him tight.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean mutters. He slaps the kid on the back of the head before pushing him away and making for the back door of the house. Just as he gets there and pushes that screen door open, he spots two figures near the shop walking this way, and quickly.

"What's going on?" Kid asks, but Dean leaves his eyes on Sam and Bobby's progress up to the house. He keeps his gun out in his hand, safety off, and it's still almost unbearable. He hasn't felt this terrified in years.

In decades.

"Dean!" And now Adam's putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to forcibly turn him around. Kid almost manages it too, which kinda shocks the hell out of Dean. He turns to look and sees Adam's right next to him. "What the hell is going on? Why are you so freaked? Where's Sam?"

Dean glances outside again and instead of answering the kid, he takes a few steps back from the door. There's the sound of two pairs of feet climbing the rickety old back porch steps and Adam quickly moves away too, eyes darting back and forth between Dean and the back doorway.

Bobby comes in first, Sam a looming shadow right on his heels. The guy glances Adam's way, but then something shifts and suddenly they're all looking at Dean.

Sam makes his 'I don't know, man' face over Bobby's shoulder, and Dean finally feels comfortable with putting his gun away. He moves the safety on and puts it at the small of his back. Then he turns and heads into Bobby's messy-ass library/living room without looking back. There's a huge TV in here now, right across from the crappy sofa. And bigger book shelves line the other walls, homemade by the look of 'em.

Dean recognizes Adam's influence, and the kid's handiwork too.

"So what's this all about then?" comes Bobby's gruffest voice as he follows Dean into the room. "Sam said something about a demon hot on your trail. . . "

Dean sends a glare Sam's way for making him the one who has to explain. Then, with a sigh, he settles himself on the edge of Bobby's beat-up desk and says pointblank, "Not a demon. The Demon. And where the hell have you been the past two days?"

Bobby opens and closes his mouth in surprise before Dean's challenge filters through. He can see the moment it happens. Bobby's face scrunches and his body shifts slightly. He's not packing, though, not from what Dean can tell, so that hand of his sliding around to his back is probably just an automatic response to Dean's tone of voice.

It'd better be. Dean's running kind of low on patience right about now, and if the old buzzard's feeling in the mood for some shotgun-waving, he sure as hell picked the wrong Winchester to try it on. And the wrong fuckin' year too.

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Bobby demands angrily. He suddenly drops his right hand back down to his side, and Dean can tell it's because he just realized what he was doing. Hunter's life for ya. "Boy, where do ya think I've been?"

"Under a rock?" Dean suggests, and sees Sam start moving along the wall closer to him. He's shaking his head at Dean, that wary, careful look on his face.

Fuck. That.

Bobby glares and shakes his head at Dean too like he's a moron. "Here, Dumbass!" he snaps. "I've been here the past two weeks straight, so why don't you can the shittin' attitude and start telling me what the hell's going on?"

Dean grits his teeth again, and that's when Sam sidles up to him.

"Dean. . . " Sammy starts, warningly.

"Pastor Jim's dead. Caleb too. Some demon bitch slit their throats and now she and her insane clown posse have Dad somewhere, and who the fuck knows if he's dead or not."

Silence again. He can hear Sam's distressed breathing right next to him and Bobby's back to gaping like a fish. It takes Dean a few seconds, and he feels like a jackass when he realizes that for the last minute or two he's completely forgotten about Adam's existence.

He looks at the kid, really looks for the first time since they got here. It's been almost five months since Dean and Sam were back here. That was right after St. Louis and the shapeshifter. That was back before Chicago, and seeing Dad, before the last week and vampires, before Pastor Jim and Caleb were murdered. Before two days ago, and The Demon.

Before Dad being kidnapped and possibly killed.

Dean doesn't know what the hell he's doing. This shit isn't like everything else. He doesn't have years and years of experience working similar cases this time. Dad's never been out of the game like this.

Something's not coming. Something's already here, and it's all Dean can do not to just walk over to the nearest wall and start punching. Or sit down and put his head in his hands and just let it all--

"Jesus Christ," Bobby finally mutters, drawing the words out as he takes his cap off and goes through his little ritual of adjusting it back on his head. "You boys okay, though?" he asks after another minute, looking between Dean and Sam carefully.

Dean just grunts, and lets Sam fill in the blanks. He gives Bobby the facts. Sets down the timeline of the last week they've been with Dad since Colorado. Sam gets all the way up to that night in Salvation, but freezes when it comes time to telling what happened after they got out of the Impala.

Dean can't stand the silence anymore so he says it. "It was up in the nursery. Sam shot at It, but the Son-of-a-Bitch went poof before the bullet could even get there. We got the mother and kid outta the room. . . just before the fire started up. Went outside, and. . . the Fucker was still up there, watchin' from the window."

Bobby's just looking at 'em with that pitying fucking look, and Dean drops his eyes down to his boots instead.

Sam clears his throat and picks up the thread again. "So, uh, we went back to the motel and. . . started packing up. . . " His voice trails off a bit there at the end and Dean can feel Sam looking at him. Without looking back, though, there's no telling what the kid's thinking really. Hell if Dean knows these days, and right now he's too tired. But he and Sam both know what happened in that motel room, know what Sam was prepared to do, what he wanted to do. What he wanted Dean to let him do, and Christ if Sammy still doesn't seem confused about why Dean has such a problem with him and Dad running off and sacrificing themselves.

No need for Bobby or Adam to hear that, though. Of that at least they're in agreement.

"Uh, Dean called Dad's phone," Sam says awkwardly. "We weren't sure what to do, so. . . figured it was. . . Anyway, Meg, uh, answered. Demon," he adds to what must've been Bobby's questioning look. "She said-- " Sam swallows loudly. "Said we weren't going to see him again. Then she hung up."

Another minute passes in silence, and then Bobby sighs. "Well you sure picked a fine time to visit, bringing God knows what behind ya." He sighs again, then moves purposefully across the room to the farthest bookshelf. Dean lifts his head to watch, and sees Bobby reach up and take down a big, dusty and no doubt older than dirt book. He brings it over to the desk Dean and Sam are leaning on and drops it on top with a loud thump.

"Looks like we've got some plannin' to do then," he says, already opening the thing up and flipping through the pages in search of something particular. Dean looks at him over his shoulder for another moment, but turns back around when Bobby calls out across the room.

"Adam, go get that black paint left over from doing the downstairs." As the kid takes off to who knows where -- cos the only thing downstairs is a basement piled high with junk -- Bobby continues, eyes still focused on the words in front of him, "And you two make yourselves useful and check the salt lines. And then for heaven's sake start some goddamned coffee cos your brother can't make it for shit."

Sam smiles and ducks his head. Dean gets up and heads into the kitchen.

***

The paint's just about dry when the dog outside starts barking again. There's a knot in Dean's gut as Bobby jumps to his feet and dashes over to the nearest window.

They'd forgotten about the dog. Suddenly there's a yelp and a screech, and then poor Rumsfeld. . .

Dean reaches out and grabs Adam by the arm. He starts dragging and pushing the kid towards the stairs, trying to get him out of sight before--

The front door bursts open, smacking back into the wall behind it so hard the doorknob wedges into the plaster. Dean glances back and sees that pretty blond head and killer body standing in the doorway. He shoves Adam so far and so hard up the stairs, Kid has to put his hands out to keep from whacking his face on the wood.

"Hello, boys," Meg drawls, stepping casually inside. "Let's cut the crap, shall we? I want the Colt. The real one. Now."

Adam's still gawping at the scene below, so it's up to Dean to try and subtly get the stupid shit out of harm's way without calling attention to it. Sam starts moving his hand around his back, looking like he's going for the holy water flask Bobby doled out earlier. At the same time, he's also closing the gap between himself and Meg. . . and telegraphing his move something stupid.

'Course it could be Sammy's trying to distract the bitch so Dean can get Adam upstairs, but it's just as likely he's back to focusing in on his anger and is now once again in martyr-mindset.

All of a sudden, Meg just lifts her arm and Sammy's flying back into Bobby's bookshelves with a loud crash. Kid doesn't look like he's moving, either, but Dean's finally given up on subtle. He takes the few seconds of distraction and uses them to finally haul Adam around the bend in the staircase so they're up on the second floor.

"Oh, Dean!" comes Meg's voice in a shout. "Where ya goin'? Not going to introduce me to the littlest Winchester?" She gives a little laugh, and then Dean hears the floorboards creak. Bitch is moving farther into the house. . . towards the library after Sam, and where Bobby's still standing too.

Like nice irresistible demon-bait.

Dean releases Adam's arm for the kid's face. He grabs him by the chin and forces eye contact. Kid looks scared.

Good.

"Stay. Here," Dean orders and, yeah, Adam's definitely freaked out cos he doesn't even do anything but nod his head. Kid ain't faking it, either. Dean jerks his head towards the upstairs bathroom, and gets another affirmative when Adam pulls his chin out of Dean's grip and carefully starts moving that way. Bathroom's best cos there's a tree right outside the window. Place is salted, and there's more of the stuff in a tin on the toilet tank, but that tree means a lot when jumping out a second-storey window becomes an option.

Dean pulls his gun out as he heads down the stairs. He eases over the creaky step, and then peeks around the corner to see what the hell's happening to make everything so goddamned quiet down here.

Bobby's literally backed into a corner, and Meg's slowly stalking closer to him. By her body language, Dean's pretty sure she still thinks she has the advantage. Sam hasn't moved from where he landed when Meg flung him, but as Dean watches. . . the kid's hand twitches and his fingers give a little flex. Sammy's playing opossum.

" --leaves the real gun with you chuckleheads. Lackluster, man. I gotta say, after everything I'd heard. . . I'm feeling a little underwhelmed."

Dean moves up behind while the bitch is monologue-ing, and when she finally crosses under the Devil's Trap it's like he can feel it.

Relief. That's relief right there.

"I mean, did you really think I wouldn't find you?" Meg asks incredulously.

"Actually," Dean replies, watching in satisfaction as she turns around, "we were counting on it." He waits a few seconds, unable to resist drawing it out just a little. Then he looks up at the ceiling pointedly, and Meg follows his line of sight perfectly.

There it is: a big ol' beautiful satanic roach motel, and it's all for her.

Dean drops his eyes and meets those beetle black ones the bitch can't hide anymore.

"Gotcha."

***

Summer 2006. Cabin Outside Jefferson City, Missouri.

It's the little things that are off. Dad's moving differently, and some of that could be because he's hurting and sore, but. . .

He's talking funny too. His cadence is off, different. And what he's saying. . .

It's wrong. This whole situation, these circumstances and what's coming out of Dad's mouth. . . it's just wrong. All of it. Dad asks for the Colt a little too forcefully again, and then it all just clicks. The wind's picked up, and the lights are flickering and Dad sent Sammy away to check salt lines when-- and now he's--

Dean steps back slowly. The confusion he gets in response to that just seals the deal. Dad wouldn't be confused about Dean refusing an order. He'd be pissed the fuck off.

"Gimme the gun. What are you doing, Dean?"

"He'd be furious," Dean says.

"What?" And there's that confusion again.

"That I wasted a bullet," he continues, feeling sick. "He wouldn't be proud of me. He'd tear me a new one."

It's just a little look, doesn't even take up a second's worth of time, but. . .

Dean lifts up the Colt and cocks it, and by that time the amusement's not there anymore, but it was. It was there. He isn't seeing things.

That's not Dad.

"You're not my dad," Dean tells It.

"Dean," It says, "it's me."

Lie. "I know my dad better than anyone. . . and you ain't him."

"What the hell's gotten into you?" the Thing asks, all concerned worry and soft voice. The Thing's really fucking it up now, cos at this point Dad would've been shouting and punching Dean in the face for pointing a loaded gun at him.

"I could ask you the same thing. Stay back," he tells It.

The sound of Sammy's footsteps gets louder, closer, and then he's striding into the room. Kid stops quickly enough though, and, shocked, he gasps out, "Dean! What the hell's going on?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam looking back and forth from Dad to him, but he makes sure to keep the Colt aimed steady and true.

"Your brother's lost his mind," the Fucker says.

Wrong answer.

"He's not Dad," Dean states.

"What?" Sammy says in this strange little-boy voice.

"I think he's possessed. I think he's been possessed since we rescued him."

That's when It really starts spouting off at the mouth, again claiming Dean's insane and they're running out of time and telling Sam's he's gotta trust It. The Thing's realized Dean's a lost cause, that he's onto It, and so now It starts working on Sam. Badgering and picking at him. It brings up poor Jessica, and now Dean's having a hard time keeping his arm steady cos he's getting tired of holding the position and all he wants to do is wipe that fake, soppy-ass hurt off Its lying face.

Off Dad's face.

Sammy, thank God, he isn't buying it. It takes another few seconds of totally un-Dad-like pleading, but eventually the kid sidles over closer to Dean. When It sees that, sees how Sam believes Dean over It. . . It plays the guilt card, the last fucking card in Its fucked-up deck.

Dean doesn't believe one fucking word, and Sam doesn't either. That's not Dad. They both know it, and now the Thing knows they know it.

It drops Dad's head down, like they've just mortally wounded It with their lack of trust and belief. . .

"I thought so," It says after awhile, and this time instead of angry. . . Dean feels the first real tendril of fear creep up.

The Thing looks up, and It's-- It's got. . . Its eyes are yellow!

He barely even thinks it before Sammy's flying back into the wall, sticking there like a fly. And then Dean's whipped back into a different one. He loses his hold on the Colt.

He drops the only fucking weapon they have against this son-of-a-bitch, right. At Its Feet.

When his head hits the wall, it bounces away and then some force brings it crashing back again. The result is like taking two hits of a two-by-four right to the back of the head. Dean's seeing stars for a minute and when he's finally able to process a full thought, The Demon's gloating about Its strength and baiting Sam into tapping those freaky-ass powers of his.

The Thing sets the gun down on the rickety old table in the middle of the room and starts Its own version of monologue-ing. It walks Dad's body over to the window near Dean, and. . . when It turns to look at him, when It starts talking about Dad being in there with It and knowing what's happening. . .

Dean thinks back to that poor girl they left dead on the floor of Bobby's library.

This Thing isn't just gonna kill him. It's gonna kill Dad too. It's gonna kill Sam and It's going to use Dad's hands to do it. Then It'll ride around in his fucking body like It's on a joyride until the gas runs out. That Demon asshole is going to laugh while It slaughters innocent people, and Dad's gonna have a front row seat to the entire thing.

"Let him go," Dean says, "or I swear to God-- "

"What?" It interrupts heatedly. "What are you and God gonna do? You see, as far as I'm concerned, this is justice." Then It comes closer. It steps right into Dean's space and. . . It's not Dad. It looks like Dad, if he avoids the eyes. It even kinda sounds like Dad, now that It's quit playing Ward Cleaver in Its attempt to trick them out of the Colt.

It has the Colt -- gun's resting right over there on the table, easy peasy -- but still the Thing won't shut up. It tells Dean about Its supposed demon-family, and then wanders back over to Sam to taunt him some more. Dean can't stand it anymore. He's sick of this shit.

If he's gonna die, he damn well wants it to be fast, none of this stalling, teasing, mocking, belittling bullshit.

He returns the favor Sam did earlier and catches the Thing's attention, drags it back onto him. It's like a snake, though. It slithers over and. . .

Demons fucking lie. Everyone in the business, first thing they learn: Demons LIE.

" --you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is, they don't need you. Not like you need them. Hell," the Thing says, laughing in Dean's face, "your dad even went off and started himself a new family once Sam left. Got himself a new kid, a smarter one. Found another pretty blonde, banged her senseless." It leans closer, and with each word Its breath washes over him. "Old man settled into a new life once his son flew outta the nest." It pauses, then, "Dropped you like the hired help," It breathes out. The Demon draws back just enough to get a good look at Dean's face. . . and he must like whatever he's seeing cos a big ol' grin comes over his face.

Its Face. The Demon's face. That's The Demon talking, not Dad.

Dad's in there somewhere, though. He's hearing all this, and then the thought pops into Dean's head that Sam's hearing this too. He keeps his eyes on The Demon, though.

Can't look at Sam. He's-- he's gotta. . . gotta keep the Thing's focus on him, not risk having It turn on Sam.

Gotta just take it.

"You were like the nanny," the Thing suddenly crows enthusiastically. "Some stupid high school dropout your father paid to look after dear Sammy. And when he didn't need you anymore?" It waves a hand and makes a pffft sound. "He just rolled outta that skeazy motel room and right on into greener pastures."

"That what you gonna do?" Dean forces out. "Gonna find yourself a new family and pop out some more demon-spawn? Cos, you know, I wasted your other kids." He shakes his head mock-consolingly, and The Demon starts moving away from him.

"What," he goads It, "no snappy comebacks once it's your own hide? You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

It's just this look on Its face, though, this smug, excited little expression that makes Dean kinda regret saying anything, but--

--pain! Jesus Christ, what The fUck is tha?!t His Heart-- finGers and God! knives-- something's. . . something's-- ripping!

"Dad!" he cries out. "Dad! Don'tchu let it kill me."

But-- more and he's crying and it's not Dad. He-- God! he looks. . . looks and it's just--

It just looks back. Yellow. He looks down. Blood. On the floor. Can't-- can't--

It's not Dad. "Dad, please." And-- but nothing. . . nothing.

Nothing.

He breathes in and feels made of knives. He can see Sammy. Angle's weird.

He's on the floor. Big shape over to the side's on the floor too.

Dad.

Now Sam's over here. A lot of blood, he says.

"Where's Dad?" Dean asks.

That's Dad. That's Dad, Sam tells him.

Not Demon. Dad.

"Go check on him," he says.

Dean?

"Go check on him."

Sam gets up. Slowly, slowly. . . careful, easy. He goes. Not too close.

Dad? Dad?

It is Dad. It's Dad, but he's still not alone. Now It's the one trapped inside. It'll get out.

Dad tells Sam to shoot him. Shoot him in the heart. End it. End It.

"Sam, don't you do it! Don't you do it!" He yells it, but the words come out quiet.

Shoot me.

Shoot me.

I'm begging you. Sammy.

"Sam, no."

Sammy!

Sam. . . and that's the one Dean cries at.

But it's Dad.

And Sam doesn't shoot.

But-- somethi--

Jesus! He lifts his head and Sam's is right there. They're standing up, and he should. . .

Dean should probably be feeling something. His vision tilts. The world falls onto its side and. . .

He's moving. No. Leather, oil, gun powder.

Blood.

In the Impala. Sam's driving. Poor girl shivers and Sam's always. . . a sloppy shifter.

He looks and looks and sees the rear view mirror. Sees Sam in it, looking-- looking back.

No, Sir, Sam says. Not before everything.

Argues. Sounds like his 'arguing'. . . voice.

Look. We still have the Colt. We still have the one bullet left. We just have to start over, all right? I mean, we already found The Demon onc--

***

He lashes out, not knowing where he is or what's happening. But those are sheets, scratchy sheets beneath his ass, and that sound. . .

Hospital. Only one place in the world that sounds like this: whirring, beeping, depressing and desperate.

He gets to his feet, slides out of the hospital bed easily. No one's around. There's no one in the room. They can't be too far, though. Dad was. . .

Dean stops walking, drawing up close to the nearest wall. He tries like hell to remember what happened, but it fuzzes out, turns to static and bright lights and loud noises. He thinks he was flying at one point, and that's when he pulls back. No use digging around and freaking out when Sammy and Dad are no doubt holed up in their own hospital beds somewhere around here.

The place is big, but quiet. Dean walks around, down hallways and up corridors, past room after occupied room. No Sam, though. No Dad. When he spots a staircase, he heads down. The nurse at the desk is blonde. It kinda unsettles him a little, but he shrugs it off and goes about asking her for help.

She doesn't react, doesn't even blink when he snaps his fingers an inch from her face. It's like he isn't even there.

Like he isn't. . .

He runs back up the stairs, retraces his path through the hospital in a mad dash back to his room. When he reaches his floor and slows to a fast walk, there's a weird pit in his stomach about the fact that he isn't winded at all. He doesn't hurt. Not even in his chest, and he remembers that part well enough.

He pushes that line of thinking away deliberately when he spots his room up ahead. He darts inside and--

Well. That. . . explains it. That would certainly account for a lot of the problem.

Kinda hard to talk to anyone if. . . he's, you know, a fuckin' spirit.

He assesses the state of things, looks over. . . his injuries. It's weird cos he's doing it as a third-party observer. That's one poor, fucked-up bastard in that bed.

His skin's a funky color, grey where it's not bruised. There's the tube down his throat breathing for him, and numerous IV lines jacked into his right arm, pumping him full of God knows what. One of 'em's gotta be morphine, though. They better have him on the good stuff, that's all he's gotta say. You don't have bandages like that on your chest and that many wires coming out and not get hooked up with the best damn painkillers in the U.S.

Poor bastard. Dean looks and looks, just kinda standing there and cataloguing everything. The big cut on his forehead looks ugly. Might scar. Might not. He finds it sorta funny that he doesn't really care either way.

Cos he's come to the conclusion that, with all those injuries and what he's able to see of the chart at the foot of the bed, he might wake up.

And. . . he might not.

He doesn't know how long he stays there. Could be minutes, or seconds even, but it sure feels like longer. Feels like a few hours, but the light from outside the windows never changes.

Time's pretty fucked up when you're. . . sorta dead. Brain dead? He doesn't know how to read any of those monitors he's all hooked up to, but surely one of 'em is for telling how his head's doing.

People pass by the room occasionally, but only one person comes in. It's a nurse, dark hair. She's older and looks busy, checking off and writing shit down on her little clipboard. Taking vitals.

Dean waits. How long has it been? Is there a clock in the room? He wonders, but he doesn't look. He can't. It's hard to focus on anything when his body. . . when he's lying right there.

Footsteps start registering, and he listens to them come closer. Takes awhile. Or maybe not. Maybe it's really just a few seconds. Probably. Feels like more, though. Feels like Dean's been waiting forever for those frantic, anxious footsteps -- for the slight squeak every time one of the heavy boots comes off the floor, for the tiny irregularity in the pacing of the stride cos of that summer when Sammy was 12 and broke his left ankle, and it never really healed up right.

Then he's there, here, in the room: Sam, Sammy, Bitch, Nutbar, Doofus, Wimp, him with his stupid-ass hair and huge body and irritating personality.

Brother. And sometimes, before, when Sammy was away at Stanford and Dean was drunk, and Dad had Adam, but before Dean had really gotten to know the kid. . . He kinda thought taking care of Sammy and watching him grow up and seeing him walk at graduation. . . he kinda thought of the little shit as his. That was his kid. Sammy was his.

His boy.

Sam goes over to the bed and stands there. There's a lot of scratches and bruising on the kid's face, but he's moving okay, looks okay enough. Dean tells him so, but Sam doesn't hear him.

Some psychic. His brother's shouting at him from a few inches away and the kid doesn't even bat an eyelash.

"Dean. . . " Sam whispers, pitifully.

He tries. He says and does his little pep talk bit, but it's useless. Sam can't hear him, doesn't even know he's here.

When Sam pats his arm before leaving, pats his body's arm or whatever, Dean watches the monitors for anything.

Nothing. Nothing happens.

Sam leaves and Dean follows him down the hall, down a flight of stairs, and across to Dad's room. Old man's laid up, but Dean can't remember why. There's no sign of any injury above the waist, so it must be something with Dad's legs. He looks okay, though, feels okay too if the argument between him and Sam is any indication.

Dean gets into it, forgetting he's not actually there with them. He tries to break 'em up, and gets so mad when they don't listen that he swipes at the water glass on Dad's rolling bed tray.

Dude, he says, I full on Swayze'd that mother.

Suddenly there's pain creeping up. He falls to his knees and there's no pain from hitting the floor hard, but he can sure feel something in his chest. It's like a spike, and he's not breathing, but he's sure as hell breathless.

He looks up and he's not in Dad's room anymore. He's with Sam and they're standing in the doorway, and that's. . . that's him those people are trying to resuscitate. That's his body being shocked and given CPR.

And that's him that ghost-thing's hovering over.

He rushes it and grabs its ghostly arm or whatever-the-fuck. Gets flung backward for the trouble, but then the thing leaves. It flies outta the room and vanishes down the hall. Dean loses sight of it, but. . .

He grabbed it. He touched it. Thing's not invincible.

Dean's not helpless, even if he is a. . . ghost.

It's later, and Sam shows up with a Ouija board. Then it's earlier and Dad's sitting in a wheelchair not saying anything. Dean's telling him. He's. . . he's fucking pleading with him, and Dad's not doing a damn thing. Doesn't say a word.

He's back to telling Sammy what's going on.

"A reaper?" the kid asks in dread.

Now Dean's face-to-face with said Reaper. And then he's back to watching himself. Now Tessa turns to him, but Then Dean's in the hallway again.

He's shouting at Dad and Sam to quit fighting, and suddenly Sam's walking into the room Dean's been waiting in for forever. Sam's there, and then Dad's there.

It's scary, like he's bouncing around through time. Just when he's sure he's steady, that's when everything shifts and he's somewhere else, somewhen else.

Bobby shows up several times, hat in hand at one point. Dean sees the guy talking to Dad a couple times, and to Sam over Dean's body a few others. He sees Dad holding his leg in pain once, and thinks maybe he remembers Sam firing off the Colt.

Dean's standing in a dark room, the one where Tessa's body was before, but it's empty now. She's telling him about angry spirits, calls him a soldier.

Dean doesn't need to breathe, but it's habit to draw in a big lungful of air right before cussing out his brother. He takes a breath in, and when he's done it's not Sam there anymore.

It's Adam.

No air comes out, but Dean pushes anyway. It's the first time he's seen Adam in the slideshow of his ghostly existence. Kid looks pretty bad. They all do, but somehow it's worse on Adam.

The shift doesn't come for a long time. Dean's come to expect it now, always ready for that pull and spin away, and he's been storing away every detail of every scene he sees.

But he isn't pulled away. It's just Adam in an uninterrupted stream for. . . a long time.

No gaps, no blips, no static.

Kid's sitting in a chair pulled up right next to Dean's bedside. He's got both of his hands up and he's holding Dean's left one tightly. He's not crying, but his eyes are red. Adam's grown. Dean hadn't noticed, not really, but now he can see it. He sees himself in the hospital bed, and Adam sitting next to him.

They look a lot alike, the two of them, more than Dean and Sam do even. Sam, you stand him next to Dean and no one gets that they're related right off the bat. But you stand Dad and Sammy back-to-back, side-by-side. . . it's pretty damn obvious they're father and son. Dean, well, he's never really looked like either of them. Not really. Maybe when Dad was younger, in the photos of him from 'Nam and the one of the three of them sitting on the Impala, he and Dean could've been linked up as relatives. Maybe not father and son, but definitely related. With the beard, though, nuh-uh. Even Dean has a hard time seeing it, and he's looking for it.

Sam looks like Dad, and Dean. . . he looks a lot like Mom.

Seeing Adam sitting here, though, seeing the two of them from the outside, Dean realizes how much they look alike. Definitely related, and closely at that. They look like brothers, have the same coloring and build. Adam's decent height now, just about six foot if Dean had to guess, and their eyes are pretty much the same. . . if Dean remembers his own correctly.

"You look like shit," Adam says from out of nowhere. Dean laughs, and it feels weird, watching this scene. It's like he's eavesdropping on himself.

"Hope that doesn't scar," Kid goes on, looking at the cut on Dean's forehead. "Wouldn't want to curtail any of that action you get."

He's silent for awhile. Dean would say it's another hour before the kid starts talking again, but that's probably not right. Doubtful Adam would be left alone in here for an hour, what, with Sam, Dad, and Bobby all down a flight, pow-wowing about what to do. It's more likely just a few minutes of silence.

Then Adam's leaning in even closer to Dean's body and glancing anxiously at the doorway, checking to make sure the coast is clear.

Preparing himself to say something he never would if Dean were there in his own body and able to talk back.

"I hope you don't. . . " He makes a noise in his throat, and Dean thinks that's what a sob sounds like. "Bobby told me some of what happened, with. . . John and The De-- at the cabin, at that cabin you guys were in. I don't. . . I hope you don't think what It said was. . . " Kid's stopping and stuttering so badly it's hard to figure out where he's going with this.

Or at least Dean wishes it were hard. In all actuality, he has a pretty good idea what Adam's gonna say and right now he'd do just about anything to stop him from saying it.

"I-- I. . . I love you, Dean." He rattles the pronouncement off all in one breath, red in the face and from the looks of it squeezing the hell out of Dean's hand. Adam glances at the doorway again, but Dean somehow knows they won't get interrupted. Dad and Sam and Bobby are talking about The Demon, and the cabin, and Dean's seen most of that conversation already. The sun's gonna be closer to setting when those three finally finish up, closer than it is right now in this room. . . with Adam.

"I do. I love you," he repeats, stronger the second time. "I've never said it, I know, but-- and I probably won't have the balls to say it ever again, not with you, not with-- not when you're. . . awake. And you will be," he says quickly. "You're gonna wake up. This doctor you've got, he's a quack, man. You'll wake up. I know you." Adam drops his head down so Dean can't see his face for the next part, but the kid's voice is telling enough. Quietly, softly, he adds, "I know you."

"This is weird," Adam says, again out of nowhere. Dean smiles, moves closer to the bed. Sunlight touches and bounces off Adam's hair, showing it for the ridiculous blonde color it is. Same sunlight touches Dean's head, his body's, and makes it look lighter too for a moment.

"You read about people in comas hearing stuff -- being able to hear stuff," he corrects. "I-- God, I hope that's bullshit. Cos I'm gonna say some stuff, and you. . . but it's gotta be said. I've gotta say it. Cos if you die. . . " He swallows heavily, but his voice doesn't change or waver. Kid's eyes don't glisten or tear up. It's just that hard swallowing and that pause that give him away.

Kid's poker face has come a long way from that piss-poor thing it was two years ago. More than two years, actually. Two and a half.

Kid's damn near 16 years old. It's a scary thought.

"If you die," Adam repeats resolutely, "and I didn't tell you, well. . . fuck that." Kid gives a quick smile at that, and Dean does too. "That's the pussy way out, to just ignore it. So. So," he says, taking a deep breath, "I like you." Another quick flash of teeth from Adam, while Dean tries to figure out what the hell that's supposed to mean.

It's not-- surely he doesn't. . . right? Kid's not saying he--

"That wasn't hard," Adam says. "I like you," he repeats, this time softer, lower, deeper. Closer to Dean's body and turned. . . differently. That's when Dean starts to get it, get what's being said.

Adam. . . fucking Christ, Kid.

"You remember that time we went shooting? At that one range, back in Arkansas?"

Dean does. He remembers how nervous Adam was, and how shitty his shots were that day. But that was back when they hardly knew each other, so Dean had chalked it up to the kid still being skittish around him and new to guns in general and moved on.

Evidently that isn't the case. Evidently, Dean touching Adam and positioning Adam's body, straightening his stance. . . evidently that wasn't quite the same experience for Dean as it was for the kid.

"It's-- it's fucked up," Adam says. "I know that, okay? I know I'm. . . sick for thinking like that, but-- but. . . " There's that hard swallow again, giving him away. "I don't care!" he hisses, still aware enough to keep his voice low. "I can't do anything about it. It's not going away. You'd say, 'Aw, Kid, what the hell are you thinking?' and I-- " He shrugs.

"I can't think," Adam declares a moment later. "That's-- that's the point. When you're around, when you come by. . . I can't think. I just-- I like you, Dean." And that's when the tears finally make an appearance. Adam's breathing noticeably hitches, and his voice goes high and thin. "I like you so fucking much, and you'd better not fucking die and leave me alone!"

Kid has Dean's hand wrapped in both of his own, and he's holding it close to his face. Close enough that Dean imagines he'd be feeling Adam's irregular, harsh breathing. . . if he were able to feel that is.

Close enough to. . . kiss.

Dean walks around the bed until he's standing right next to Adam. He moves, sort of lets himself drop and collapse until he's doing the ghostly equivalent of kneeling. If he could, he'd move his hand and touch Adam's cheek.

If he could, he'd go back and make sure those ghouls never came anywhere near Adam's mother. Nip this in the bud and prevent the kid from ever getting this fucked up.

Dad should have been there. If he'd-- or if Dean hadn't. . . acted some way he evidently had, hadn't led the kid on or something. If Sammy'd--

Dean sets his hand on Adam's shoulder, but it falls right through the kid like he knew it would. Adam's sitting here crying over Dean's vegetable of a body, and Dean can't even do a thing to comfort the poor bastard.

They stay like that, for awhile, but damned if Dean knows for how long. The sun changes, moves across the sky until it's just about ready to set. The light changes, darkens. It slowly becomes Time -- Time for Dean to talk with Tessa about restless spirits upstairs in the dark hospital room, Time for Bobby, Sam, and Dad to finish planning downstairs, Time for Sam to come in here and Adam and Bobby to leave.

Time for Dad to go behind all their backs and sneak down to the Boiler Room alone.

Time for The Demon to come back.

Time, for all of them. Time to play their parts.

When Sammy's unique tread can be heard rapidly approaching the room, Adam stands and leans over Dean's body. He kisses Dean on the forehead and then on the cheek, and they both know the ventilator's the only thing keeping Adam from kissing Dean's lips instead.

Sam comes in. He and Adam sit in silence by Dean's body until Bobby comes to take Adam away. Sam heaves out a sigh, and Dean's shifted upstairs to Tessa. She's turning around, and then it's not her. It's The Demon, and when Its hand touches Dean's face. . .

. . . he realizes that's the same spot Adam set his kiss.

Dean realizes he didn't mind being kissed like that--

He lashes out, not knowing where he is or what's happening. He's choking. There's something down his throat and he can't breathe. But those are sheets, scratchy sheets beneath his ass, and that sound. . . and that's Sam right there leaning over him.

"Help!" Sam yells. "I need help!"

Nurses rush in, and a doc comes and pulls out the tube in Dean's throat. It's a ventilator. Was supposedly helping him breathe.

Evidently, as the doc tells him afterward, Dean's been unconscious for awhile. Few days.

Evidently, as Sam tells him after the doc leaves, the three of them -- Dean, Dad, and Sammy -- were hit by a possessed trucker, and Dean's spirit or what-the-fuck-ever has been floating around the hospital. Hunting a reaper.

"You say a reaper was after me?"

"Yeah," Sam repeats.

"Well, how'd I ditch it?" Dean asks.

"You got me," Sam replies at a loss. "Dean. . . you really don't remember anything?"

"No," he says honestly. "Except this pit in my stomach." Dean swallows heavily, and feels like there's something. . . "Sam, something's wrong."

Sam looks ready to say something when there's a knock.

"How ya feelin', Dude?" comes Dad's voice from the doorway.

"Fine, I guess," Dean answers automatically. He turns to look, and sees Dad, looking strange and worn out. Exhausted, the man looks dead on his feet. His arm's in a sling and he's holding himself carefully, but he's smiling. "I'm alive," Dean adds.

There's that smile again. "That's what matters."

There's a few seconds' silence and then Sam's quizzing Dad on supposedly disappearing the night before. Dad gives a standard non-answer and Sam chafes at it like always.

It's up to Dean to try and keep the peace. Like always.

Sam brings up The Demon, looking like he's spoiling for a fight, when Dad verbally cuts his legs right out from under him.

"Can we not fight?" Dad suddenly asks. He finally comes all the way into the room, walking stiffly, limping almost. "You know, half the time we're fightin' I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just buttin' heads. Look, Sammy," he says, and Dean feels sick when the light hits Dad's face just right. Those are tears in his eyes. That's pleading in his voice. "I've-- I've made some mistakes, but I've always done the best I could. I just. . . don't want to fight anymore, okay?"

"Dad, are you all right?" Sam asks, obviously just as freaked out by how Dad's acting as Dean.

"Yeah," Dad tells him. "Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, Sammy, would you mind, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." Sam gives both Dad and Dean another dubious, unsure look, but then he leaves the room.

"What is it?" Dean asks once Sam's outta earshot.

***

He wishes he hadn't asked, wishes Dad never told him. He wishes he could forget the answer just as he's forgotten everything else.

He wishes he could go back and make things right, but he doesn't even know what right is anymore.

***

The End.