The men of letters compound was always silent during the witching hour, silent except for Dean's soft socks padding through the seemingly endless halls. Ever since he had lost his brain, lost his control, lost his sanity, lost his confidence in his goodness, he spent a lot of time rambling through the compound at night, it was all he could do after he had read everything in the seemingly endless files regarding the Mark, and he was frustrated and needed to walk off his anger and frustration before that anger and frustration boiled into something Dean no longer had control over.

Tonight was no different. Sam had fallen asleep hours ago, and Dean had made two circuits through the compound, and each time he stopped in front of his brother's room and checked on him, made sure he was sleeping and that he was still breathing. Cain's words had scared him, and Dean was now terrified that in one of those Mark of Cain fueled insane moments, he might accidentally fulfill Cain's predictions.

He stopped, for the third time that night, in front of his brother's room and watched his chest rise and fall with his steady breathing, felt vaguely reassured by the scene, and then guilt slammed into him like a sledge hammer.

Sam was lying on a bed that was too short for his long frame. His socked feet hung over the end of the bed, one sock even half off of his foot. Sam was 32 years old and he still wasn't able to have a bed that fit his frame, and that gnawed at Dean. Honestly, a lot of things about Sam's life and situation gnawed at him. He rubbed his hand across his mouth. He had vowed to protect his little brother with his life. And what had he done? He had let his brother go to hell, let him live without a soul, and then let him live so tortured that he had to dig his fingers into an open wound to keep his sanity. And now, he was stuck in a bunker, in a bed that was too small, wearing clothes that were cheap and discarded from the more fortunate, and with a brother that prophecy said would kill him. That was a terrible life, no matter which way you looked at it.

"You don't deserve this life Sammy." Dean whispered to his sleeping brother. "You deserve to be a big shot lawyer, with Jessica as your bride, with children running around, and that white picket fence. You deserve so much more than this life." Sam rolled over and in his sleep struggled to stay on the bed that was too small.

Dean shook his head, took a deep breath, and made a resolution. It was time to quit whining about things, it was time to do something. His brother DID deserve a better life than this. He didn't deserve to have a ticking time bomb of a brother, he deserved a good job, a good life, a good house, a good wardrobe, a good haircut, a good wife, and at least one good child. He didn't deserve THIS.

"It's my job to take care of him." Dean whispered to the air. "It is my job to keep him safe, it was my job to keep him out of this." Dean licked his dry lips and whispered, "I'm so sorry for all of this Sammy. It's all my fault. I should never have drug you back into this." With that apology came a thought. A thought that he could act on, a thought he could put into action, and change things for his little brother.

Dean, with a new purpose, new determination, headed back towards his room, he had work to do.

SNSNSNSNSN

Dean didn't have a lot of time, Sam was always up with the sun, even if he couldn't see the sun in this God forsaken underground hole. He hurried to the archives, socks skidding on the slick floor, deft fingers running through file folders that he had scanned through a hundred times, because with all of his efforts on the Mark Of Cain, he knew where every last thing was, he found what he was looking for, snapped his fingers in achievement, and in a matter of moments he gathered everything he needed, and he began the spell that would give his brother back his life, and fix this mess that Dean Winchester had created for not only his little brother, but the world.

As soon as the last words of the spell were spoken he felt the warm sunshine on his face, and he opened his eyes. He was in the middle of nowhere. A flip phone he had had back before he had picked up Sam and Stanford was pressed to his ear. All he heard was the tail end of his father's voicemail telling whoever was calling to call Dean.

Dean looked into the rearview mirror and saw young green eyes staring back at him. He pulled the mirror down, and there he was, ten years younger, fuller lips, fuller cheeks, no laugh/frown lines around his eyes, and when he reached up to touch his face, the silver ring was still on his hand, and the bracelets that he had worn back then encircling his strong wrist. The weight of the amulet pulled at his neck ever so slightly, the young lady who had written her own weird musical version of his life words ringing in his ears 'you never should have thrown it away.' This time he would never ever throw this away.

Closing his eyes, he listened to his heart pounding in his ears, he took a deep breath and looked for the last piece of this hellish puzzle, he pulled up his sleeve and looked at his arm, no mark. He had done it, he had gone back, he could fix this before it even started. Sammy would not have to live the life of a hunter, would not have to die, would not have to go to hell, and would not have to worry that his big brother might kill him. Dean would make sure of that.

Dean rolled his shoulders. First thing was first, find Jessica Moore. She had to know some things, she had to protect herself, and she had, most importantly, to LIVE.

He threw the Impala into drive with a smile and sped off in the direction of Stanford University.

As the big black beast sped away, kicking up dust and gravel in its wake, a trench coat billowed in the wind, there were things that were supposed to play out in this world, and he had been sent to stop this crazy human named Dean Winchester.