Ten years later

"And why exactly am I on Earth with you today?" Sam asked, leveling a glare at Crowley, who was standing across from Sam and looking too innocent. When Sam had been taken to Hell over a decade ago, the first thing he had learned was that no demon could be trusted. If they tried to act as though they were on your side, then that was the time when you should brace yourself to be stabbed in the back.

Or, better yet, that was when you should prepare yourself to rip out their throats before they got the chance to touch you.

And Crowley had to know that. Sometimes, Sam thought that the demon took sick pleasure in acting as suspicious as possible, making it clear that he had a plan, and tormenting Sam with the fact that he didn't know exactly what Crowley was thinking.

There were times when Sam wanted to kill Crowley. Or, he knew that that wouldn't be possible – Sam was never allowed near anything that could be used as a fatal weapon – but there were several times when Sam had to physically restrain himself from forcing Crowley into a devils trap and hurting him until he talked. But Sam never did. For one, Azazel thought that Crowley was useful, that he would help them to raise Lucifer and claim Earth for themselves. He would be very displeased if Sam ever did anything to hurt him, and Azazel's displeasure was not a thing that was pleasant to weather. Sam had grown immune to most torture, but Azazel always sent Alistair to do his dirty work, and Alistair was the one demon that could still make Sam scream.

But more than that, Sam knew that Azazel was wrong about where Crowley's allegiance lay. Which was precisely why Sam let the demon walk around unharmed.

"Oh, the typical reasons," Crowley said with a wave of one hand. He and Sam were in the office of Crowley's mansion, the one that he used when he was doing business on Earth. Sam was sitting – Crowley had insisted on that, and led Sam to the lowest chair in the room, so that Crowley could lean back against his desk and loom over Sam's head.

Sam didn't mind. Crowley could pretend that he had the power if that was what he wanted. They both knew that Sam could destroy him if he wished to, even if Sam didn't actually have a way to kill the demon.

"We're getting closer to releasing Lilith, you know," Crowley continued. "Azazel and I were talking, and we decided that it would be better to increase the amount of time on Earth, to ensure-"

"I know the reasons for bringing me to Earth," Sam said, in a voice that made even Crowley fall silent. But this explanation was pointless, and Sam wasn't in the mood to listen to Crowley pretend that he was answering Sam's question.

Most of Sam's upbringing had been spent in Hell, feeding on demon blood and being trained to use the powers that it gave him, while Azazel carefully used blood and pain to try to mold Sam to his will. But beginning about a year ago – a year in Earth time, that was – Azazel had begun thinking that it was time for Sam to leave Hell. Not permanently, of course, but long enough for him to adjust to Earth, and to learn the different ways that his powers worked when he was away from Hell. Crowley had been all too eager to volunteer for this particular part of Sam's training.

Azazel had agreed, thinking that Crowley wanted to do what he could to raise Lucifer's vessel. And Crowley did, but his motivations were different than Azazel believed.

Sam had seen the way that Crowley watched him, the way that his expression changed when Azazel wasn't around. Crowley wasn't helping Sam out of the goodness of his heart, if a demon actually had one. He wanted Sam the way that one would want a useful weapon.

Sam knew it, and he was fine with it. That was the way that Sam intended to use Crowley, after all.

"My question," Sam said, "is why you insisted that I come to you so quickly." Azazel might believe that it was necessary for Sam to become accustomed to using his powers while on Earth – they would be necessary when it was time to free Lilith and help her to break the seals, after all – but that was far from the only training that Azazel had him complete. Sam hadn't been scheduled to return to Earth for several Hell years, until Crowley had changed their plans.

"As I explained to Azazel, my training is of the utmost importance," Crowley said. "I would hate for us to spend so many hundreds of years putting our plan into motion, only to have your powers fail you because you don't have enough experience with using them on Earth."

Sam didn't react, just glared at Crowley, waiting for the real explanation. And a second later, Crowley gave it.

"There is also one particular deal that I would like you to handle," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I believe that he should be ready to sell his soul any minute now, and trust me, you would be quite angry if I had left you out of this one." Crowley paused, tilting his head to the side, and then his smile widened. "In fact, I believe that the deal is just beginning to go down now."

Sam stared at Crowley's face for another second, recognizing the look that he had in his eyes, which meant that he wasn't going to share any further information. Sam narrowed his eyes, biting back the spark of anger that ran through him. "Fine," he said shortly. He stood and carefully smoothed the wrinkles from his jacket. "I'll bite. Send me to this man."

"With pleasure," Crowley said as he stepped forward to place a hand on Sam's shoulder. One of the more frustrating limitations of being on Earth was that Sam couldn't transport himself the way that he could when he was in Hell. Sam might be as demonic as Azazel could make him, but his human body still bound him, preventing him from moving as he wished. He was forced to rely on other demons when he wanted to move around, and even though those demons were sometimes ones that he himself controlled, the fact that they were necessary was a constant source of frustration.

Crowley paused, his hand hovering an inch above Sam. "Find me if you want my help," he said, and then lowered his hand to touch Sam.

A second later, Sam was standing in the middle of a dirt road in some area that he didn't recognize, but which was inconsequential. He glanced up at the sky and guessed that it was midmorning – after being in Hell for so long, he had lost track of what time it was on Earth – then turned slowly to face the man who had made this deal, the one that Crowley had been so excited about.

Sam recognized him immediately, and understood why Crowley had chosen to send him to make this deal.

"Dean Winchester," Sam said slowly, and felt a smile stretch across his face as he regarded the man who had once been his brother. "How interesting to see you again, after all these years."

From the moment that Dean had first seen Dad lying in the hospital bed, he had known what he was going to do.

It had started with Dean and Dad hunting the Yellow-Eyed demon, and both of them had been determined that this time, that bastard was going to die – eventually. But they'd had a few answers to rip out of him first, like what the hell he had done with Sam all those years ago. By now, they both knew that it was probably too late to save Sammy. But they still wanted answers, and nothing was going to stop them until they had learned everything that they had wanted to know.

Things hadn't exactly gone according to plan. The demon had possessed Dad, and even though he'd shouted at Dean to just trap him while he could and get the information they needed, Dean just couldn't do it. So he'd exorcised the demon, and they'd been driving away when a semi truck had plowed into their side.

Dean spent a long time sitting by his dad's bedside, trying to talk himself out of it, telling himself that Dad would wake from this coma on his own, that Dean didn't need to do this. None of it worked. Which was how he had ended up down at the crossroads.

Dean got the feeling that Dad would be pissed when he woke up. He wouldn't want Dean to do this, Dean was sure. Dad might not be the cuddly type, but he'd changed ever since Sammy had been taken, become more protective of Dean than he'd been before. So Dean knew with absolute certainty that Dad would want to be the one sacrificing himself for his son, not the other way around.

Well, that was just too damn bad. Dean had been the one to let the Yellow-Eyed demon escape, just like he he'd been the one to let it steal Sam. And this time, Dean had done it on purpose to save Dad's life, and there was no fucking way that Dad was going to die anyway. Dean wasn't going to lose anyone else.

So he was going to make a deal.

He had an empty matchbox that he'd used to hold his picture and all of the other things that he'd needed. He buried it in the dirt, then straightened, waiting. For a few seconds, Dean just stood there, feeling like an idiot and wondering if he'd somehow done something wrong. Then he felt a presence behind him, and turned around.

The demon stood behind him, dressed in an impeccable suit, his long hair brushed neatly out of his face. Something about his appearance put Dean on edge. Usually, he dealt with demons that had jumped into the first body they could reach. If Dean had had to guess what a demon would look like when they'd had time to pick their vessel and get all dressed up, he would've said that it would be something wilder, something that would make it obvious that this person wasn't quite human. Instead, this man could have passed for any normal businessman. Except for the eyes. They hadn't changed color – they still looked human – but they looked dead inside.

And there was something else about this guy that bothered him, too. Dean didn't know what it was, though, which just made him more nervous.

"Dean Winchester." The demon smiled, though only his mouth moved – the rest of his face stayed exactly the same, and his eyes looked just as soulless as before.

Dean really hated those eyes. For some reason, they were creepier than the ones he normally saw on demons. And that was saying a lot, because Dean was not one to get creeped easily.

"How interesting to see you again, after all these years," the demon continued, and took a step closer.

"You know me, huh?" Dean asked, and even managed a hint of a cocky grin, to let this demon shit know that he wasn't scared of it. "Let me guess – I booted your ass back to Hell somewhere down the line? Because if I did, then I hope you're not too bitter about it, because I get the feeling that I'll be a valuable customer."

The demon shook his head. It was just the slightest movement, almost imperceptible. "Not exactly," he said, and then the corner of his mouth lifted, making his face look almost amused. "Though that could be one way to say it, I suppose."

"Then what?" Dean asked. "Why would some demon know about me?"

Now, the demon definitely looked amused. "Everyone in Hell knows about our family," he said, slowly circling Dean, never taking his eyes off of him. "John Winchester, the Righteous Man. And his two sons, the hunter and the Hellspawn."

Dean tensed. "What do you mean?" he demanded, taking a step closer. His hands twitched, just itching to pull out his gun and send some salt rounds at this bastard, get some answers. Dean had to remind himself that he'd come here to work with the demon, not to send it back to Hell where it belonged.

Letting the demon just stand there without killing it felt wrong on a fundamental level, but he'd do it for Dad.

"You really don't recognize me?" the demon asked, then gave a small shrug. "It has been ten years, I suppose, but even so. We were brothers, Dean. You're going to hurt my feelings."

"No," Dean said at once. His hands clenched into fists, and he had to concentrate to keep himself from shaking.

"Who do you think I am, Dean?" the demon asked, then immediately answered his own question. "You know it's true, don't you? You recognize me. Little Sammy, all grown up. I'm guessing you didn't think that the family reunion would happen here, of all places."

"No!" A second later, the gun was in Dean's hands and aimed straight for the demon's chest. "Don't you dare say that name. I don't know why you're pretending to be my brother, but it will be the last mistake you make."

The demon raised his eyebrows. "You don't believe me?"

"My brother isn't – wasn't – some demon," Dean spat. "He wouldn't have turned into this."

"So you think," the demon said. "A few centuries in Hell changes a person." He studied Dean's face, and smirked at whatever he saw there. "Really, Dean, where did you think that the demons had taken me? Did you think that they would keep me someplace nice and happy, all tea parties and rainbows? They're called demons for a reason, and believe me, you can't even imagine the things that they're capable of." He took a step closer. "How long do you think it took them to break poor little twelve-year-old Sammy? Whatever you guessed, I can guarantee, it was a shorter time than that."

Dean couldn't help it, he shuddered, and pushed away all the images that that brought to mind. It wasn't like he hadn't had ten years to think about them already, to imagine the things that could be happening.

Then he tightened his grip on his gun. "No," he said a third time, his voice steadier this time, but that was only because he refused to let this lying-piece-of-shit demon see that he was getting to Dean. "My brother's dead. That's what happened to him."

The demon waved one hand, dismissing that. "You would have found the body," he said. "They wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of taking me away if they just wanted me dead."

Dean didn't have a response for that, so he just clicked the safety off his gun without a word.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

"You know that it's true," the demon said, as if he had read Dean's mind. And maybe he had. Dean shuddered again, and had to resist the urge to cover his head with his hands, as stupid as the impulse was. But he still felt like he had to find a way to hide himself somehow. And even if it had just been a lucky guess, Dean still didn't like what that meant – that he was easy enough to read that some random demon could predict his thoughts and use them to mess with him.

The demon kept walking forward, one step after another, dragging it out. Dean kept the gun pointed at the demon's chest, and refused to back up. "You know that it's true," the demon said again. He was close now, only a few feet away, and with one large step, he closed the distance completely, grabbing the gun and holding it in place, the barrel pressed against the middle of his chest. "Shoot me, if I'm not your brother."

Dean should. He really should.

"You can't do it, can you," the demon said, not making it a question. He sounded completely confident, as though there was not a doubt in his mind. "That's good, Dean. We shouldn't be hurting each other."

Dean's hands were shaking. He lowered his gun.

"Sammy," he said, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't keep his voice steady.

"I haven't used that name in over a thousand years now," Sam said with a shrug, "but I suppose you can call me that if you prefer."

"I thought you were dead," Dean said. "I really thought you were dead. Or, I- I hoped that you were dead." Because part of him had known that Sam was probably still out there, being kept somewhere where he and Dad would never find him, and Dean knew exactly what would be happening to him – or, at least, Dean knew enough to know that death would be better than what demons could do to a person if they had time on their side and nothing to stop them.

Sam raised one eyebrow, looking unimpressed and a little impatient, like he was waiting for Dean to get to the point.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked.

"I should be asking you that," Sam said. "You're the one who summoned a demon, after all. I'm just here to answer your call."

"You're a crossroads demon," Dean said. Somehow, realizing that was even worse than even seeing Sam. Because Dean saw the person in front if him, but he still couldn't connect the cruel man in front of him with the bratty little kid that Dean had practically raised. He just couldn't connect the two in his mind. But saying it like that drove it home.

His little brother Sammy was a demon.

"I work for one, at least," Sam said. "I can't make deals myself, what with technically still having a human body and all, but I collect contracts on another demon's behalf."

"Wait," Dean said. "You're still human?"

Sam looked at Dean for a long moment. "I suppose that depends on how you look at it," he finally said, then clapped his hands together once. "Now, why did you call on me? It must be something big, if it's enough to make the great hunter Dean Winchester work with the demons who destroyed half his family."

Dean cleared his throat, suddenly remembering the reason why he was here. "Dad's hurt bad," he said. He looked away from Sam for a moment, starting hard at the ground until his eyes cleared and he was sure that he wasn't going to lose it and start acting like a frickin' baby. Then he faced Sam again, and said with a steady voice, "He's not going to make it unless I do something. So here I am."

"You're willing to sell your soul for your dad." Sam considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Admirable."

"So we have a deal?" Dean asked.

Sam blinked. "I never said that."

"Come on," Dean said. "My dad – our dad – is going to die if we don't do something." That had to mean something to him. Screw ten years in Hell, or a thousand years, or however long Sam had been gone. They were family, and that wasn't nothing. Somewhere in there, Sam had to still care.

If he did, though, it didn't show on his face. "I know," he said simply. "And I will save him, but I don't want your soul. I need something else from you."

Dean tensed, not sure if the feeling in the pit of his stomach was dread or hope or some weird combination of the two. Sam didn't want to drag Dean's soul down to Hell – that had to be a good sign, right? If Sam really was all gone, then he wouldn't have hesitated to take Dean's soul. But he'd said no to it. That had to mean that he still cared.

Unless he was about to ask for something worse.

"What?" Dean finally asked, since Sam didn't look like he was about to come out and say it anytime soon.

"Your help," Sam said.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Help with what?"

"Don't look so scared, Dean, you're going to like this deal," Sam said, then looked Dean straight in the eye. "You're going to help me to summon Azazel. The demon who killed your mom and kidnapped me," Sam explained, clearly realizing that Dean didn't know this demon's name. Then Sam smiled, looking fiercer than Dean had thought that he'd be able to look, his eyes lighting with what looked almost like pleasure. Despite all the times that he'd smiled, this was the first time that he looked like he was really, truly enjoying himself.

It wasn't a pleasant expression, though. Forget everything that Dean had thought earlier about Sam looking like any random businessman off the street. With this expression on his face, there was no way that anyone could think that Sam was anything but a monster.

Dean instantly felt guilty for thinking the word, like he was betraying his brother by even letting it cross his mind. He couldn't think of a word that described him better, though.

Maybe Sam did have some sort of mindreading powers, but if he did hear what Dean had just thought about him, it clearly didn't bother him in the slightest. He just continued smoothly, his feral smile still in place. "And once we have Azazel trapped," he said, slowly and with obvious relish, "I'm going to take that fancy gun of yours, and I'm going to kill him."