Dean could not fucking believe this.

As if it wasn't enough that they had angels coming at them from one side and demons from the other, that a couple of archangels with daddy issues wanted to wear them to the prom, that the world was coming down around their ears because Sam had started the goddamn apocalypse. No, now he had to deal with fucking amnesia too.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Hunting. Somewhere in the Appalachians. We were going after a Black Dog."

Sam looked strangely small where he sat huddled on the bed, eyes wide and scared and young. Sam hadn't looked young in . . . years. Dean jerked his gaze away.

"We haven't hunted a Black Dog since you were a kid."

"I'm not a kid." Sharp, verging on petulant, genuine vintage Sammy. They were so goddamn screwed.

"Whatever." Dean dropped into one of the wobbly chairs, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh. "Okay, so you think you're fourteen?"

"Fifteen."

"Fine." He kept his eyes on the whiskey bottle in front of him. He didn't want to look at Sam, didn't want to see his baby brother staring out at him. That kid was long gone. This is just an echo, an illusion, and he refused to be taken in by it. There was only one thing to do with ghosts. He surged to his feet.

"Dean?"

"I'm gonna figure out what the hell happened, and then I'm gonna fix it."

"I'll help," said Sam immediately. He stumbled a little as he rose on unfamiliar legs.

"No," said Dean shortly, finally turning back towards his brother. Sam faltered a little at his expression, but Dean found he didn't have the energy to feel bad about it. "You," he continued, jabbing an authoritative finger at Sam's chest, "are going to stay here, in this room, and do nothing. No research, no phone calls, and don't even think about touching the bags."

"What?!" Sam exclaimed, and his expression of adolescent indignation was almost surreal to see on his adult face. "Dean, just because I'm not thirty years old doesn't mean I can't read. Just drop me off at the library –"

"No way in hell," Dean cut him off. "I left you in our motel room for five fucking minutes and you managed to get fucking amnesia; you're not going anywhere." He was being harsh and he knew it, but he didn't care. He was getting sick and tired of cleaning up Sam's messes.

"Dean, you know I can handle myself!"

Dean snorted derisively. Sam could handle himself alright – up until some demon bitch caught his eye.

"It's like you don't trust me."

Dean suppressed a flinch, pain shooting through him and swiftly hardening into anger. He turned away, snatching up his jacket.

"That's right, I don't," he snapped over his shoulder. "So stay."

"But –"

"That's an order!" Dean yanked the door open, preparing to step out into the chilly night air.

"Whatever you say, Dad."

Dean froze. Walk away walk away he's fifteen you're gonna regret this – He felt his grip loosen from the doorknob, felt himself turn, felt the glare that made Sam shrink back, felt the white-hot liquid fury pour off his tongue –

"You wanna know why I don't trust you, Sam? Maybe it's because you chose some skanky demon chick over me. Maybe it's because I fucking died for you, and you lied to my face. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because you started the goddamn apocalypse!"

Sam's face crumpled, and Dean turned away. He already felt sick as the door slammed behind him, but he didn't look back. He couldn't deal with this shit. He was so goddamn tired. He just couldn't – he couldn't –

He drove. Didn't even pretend to look for a library, found a bar instead. He had fucked up. He knew he had fucked up. Now he had a whole new mess to clean up, and this one was entirely his fault. He'd just yelled at a kid. A fucking kid. And not just any kid, but his kid, his Sammy, who didn't remember doing any of that shit, who was only guilty of brooding too much and having terrible taste in music.

He was a fucking asshole.

Four drinks in, with the late-night crowd beginning to descend, he tried calling, muttered an oath when no one picked up. If Sam thought he was in nineteen-ninety-nine, of course he wouldn't know how to use a smartphone. And what had Dean said to him? No phone calls.

Downing one last drink for the road, Dean got more-or-less steadily to his feet.

When he got back to the motel, the room was dark. Cursing, hoping that the kid had just decided to turn in for the night, he swung the door open. Sam was still there, alright – but not sleeping. He was curled in the middle of his bed, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes damp and luminescent in the yellow light of the streetlamp.

"There a reason you're sitting in the dark?" Dean asked, flicking the switch. Sam flinched, though whether it was from the light or his voice, Dean didn't know. "Look," Dean sighed, shutting the door behind him and sinking onto his own bed. "What I said . . . it wasn't fair."

"You don't have to apologize," said Sam quietly.

"I'm not. I'm just – explaining, okay? You're not – evil, or anything." He probably wasn't saying this right, but he was never great with words, even when he was sober. He began unlacing his boots, if only to avoid meeting Sam's eyes. "I mean, it's not like you were trying to start the apocalypse. You got played."

"By who?"

"Demons, angels, I don't know man, everyone. It was a giant cosmic conspiracy."

"Why me?"

Dean shrugged, or tried to, which it turned out was not the smartest thing to do with his shirt halfway over his head.

"Some Heaven-Hell-prophecy bullshit," he answered once he managed to get himself untangled. "You're the devil's Chosen One or whatever the fuck." He realized, belatedly, that he was probably not being very reassuring. "Look, man, don't worry about it. It's done with. Just go to sleep, we'll call Bobby in the morning, get this all sorted out."

"Alright," said Sam. "I understand. Goodnight, Dean."

There was something off about his tone, something way too calm, but Dean was drunk and exhausted and he could already feel sleep weighing down his eyelids and whatever the fuck was going on in Sam's head, it could wait until morning.

"Night."

Dean was asleep before he hit the pillow.

.

.

.

Sunlight lanced its way through the gap in the curtains and directly into Dean's brain. He gave a groan which ended with a curse and threw an arm over his eyes. Thankfully, the room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Cursing again, he pushed himself upright, eyes raking over the conspicuously empty room.

"Sam?"

Silence. He hauled himself up, ignoring the throbbing in his head. Sam's bag was gone. He pushed the bathroom door open and flicked on the light – nothing. Even Sam's dumb purple toothbrush was gone. The second bed was neatly made, didn't even looked slept in. It was like he'd never been here.

Cursing even more viciously in an attempt to drown out the sound of his stomach hitting the ground, he yanked out his phone and hit two on speed dial.

"Singer."

"Bobby, thank god."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me. Look, I need your help." Dean sank onto his bed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Sam's taken off. He was acting all weird last night, and now he's just . . . gone."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy sigh.

"How much have you had to drink, son?"

"What?" Dean asked incredulously. "Bobby, it's nine AM. I'm hung over, not drunk. I had like four drinks last night; I'm fine. Sam's the one who was acting nutty; he had amnesia or something, thought he was fifteen. I think I might've spooked him," he added, a fresh layer settling on top of his ever-present heap of guilt. "He could be heading your way."

There was another silence, and when Bobby spoke again his voice was gentle, sad.

"I think maybe you should head up here yourself."

"Why?" asked Dean sharply, suspicion kindled. "Has he talked to you? Is he –" He frowned, judging the distance. Not that far. Difficult by public transport, but if Sam had jacked a car – he knew how at fifteen, though he hadn't been happy about it. "Is he there?"

"Dean . . . trust me on this one. Here's where you need to be."

"Bobby," Dean all but growled, anger boiling in his chest. Bobby knew better than to play games like this when Sam's safety was on the line. "This is Sam. If you know something –"

"I know where he is," Bobby interrupted. "I know where your brother is, Dean." And damned if it didn't sound like every word was torn from his throat, and that was not at all reassuring. "Come up here and I'll show you."

"Fine," Dean snapped. He didn't have time for this. "Fine, but this had better be good." He hung up, furious again, at Bobby for being so damn shifty, but also at Sam for being such a melodramatic little shit, and was this really fucking necessary? He shoved his things into his bag, muttering under his breath about idiot little brothers and their stupid fucking theatrics. Couldn't do a single damn thing the easy way.

Three hours to Sioux Falls; three hours of glancing reflexively at the passenger seat to find it empty, of having to squash instinctive panic every time he did. Sam was fine. He was just sulking at Bobby's, probably listening to emo music and looking tragic enough to get Bobby worried. Little bitch. Dean was going to kick his ass for freaking him out like that.

Finally, finally, he pulled into the junk yard. Not bothering to check his anger, he surged up the stairs and pounded on the door.

"Alright, alright, hold your horses!" Bobby pulled the door open. His face softened slightly, but that wasn't what Dean was paying attention to.

"Bobby!" he exclaimed, gaping. "You – you're – what the hell?"

"That's a good question," said Bobby, raising his eyebrows. He stepped back – stepped back, on his own two feet; limping but steady – to clear the doorway. "You feeling any better?"

"Christo."

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"I'm me, you idjit. You gonna stand on my porch all day, or are you gonna come in and eat something?"

Dazedly, Dean stepped inside. Bobby closed the door behind him.

"Bobby, what – ? Not to be insensitive or anything, but – how are you walking? Last I checked you were rocking some pretty permanent wheels."

"Well maybe if you checked in more often you'd be more up to date," Bobby retorted. "Got all that sorted out a while ago. The wonders of modern medicine."

"Okay. Well." Dean shook his head and followed Bobby into the kitchen. That was – weird, and required more explanation, but it could wait. Sam was in trouble. Or if he wasn't, he was damn well going to be. "Congratulations and all, but I still need to know where Sam is. Kid couldn't even be bothered to leave a goddamn note."

Bobby flinched.

"Sit down, son."

"Bobby?"

"Just – sit down."

Dean sat. Bobby sat down across from him, and sighed. Dean's blood ran cold. He hadn't seen Bobby look this broken up since – hell, since he was trapped in a dream with his dead wife.

"Dean . . . think about your brother. Really think. What's the last thing you remember?"

Dean stared at him incredulously, but Bobby just stared heavily back, so Dean complied.

"Last night. I came back from the bar; he was all weird and quiet; I apologized for yelling at him. He said he understood, and I went to sleep."

"What did he look like?"

"What do you mean, what did he look like? He looked like Sam. Super tall, puppy-dog eyes, needs a haircut. Bobby, what –"

"Sam's dead, Dean."

Dean froze. Bobby's face was serious, eyes sad. He knew better than to joke about something like this. He knew better –

"No."

"He's been dead a long time."

"No!" Dean was on his feet. He couldn't remember how he got there. "You're lying. You're not you." But it was Bobby, he knew it was; otherwise his gun would have been in his hand by now. It was Bobby and he wasn't lying but it didn't make any sense, it couldn't be true –

"Check your wallet."

"What?" asked Dean, and his voice sounded weak and choked to his own ears.

"Just do it, Dean. Look in your wallet."

Numbly, Dean obeyed. Inside the battered leather case was a few bucks of cash, a couple fake credit cards, and . . . a piece of paper. An old, yellowed piece of paper, carefully folded and refolded a thousand times. A piece of paper which had definitely not been there before. He pulled it out with shaking fingers.

"He did leave a note," said Bobby, from very far away.

Dean,

I'm sorry. Sorry you had to find me like this, sorry I couldn't explain everything face to face. I wanted to. So many times, I wanted to just tell you everything, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to go through with it then. And anyway, you've always had enough on your mind without me crying on your shoulder. I know I wasn't very good at it, but I tried to be strong for you. That's why I didn't do this before, but now I know it's the only way.

You know that weird stuff a couple weeks ago? Well I know you weren't telling me the whole truth about that, but I don't hold it against you. I wasn't telling you everything, either. I saw the future, Dean. I saw what I'd become. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I ended the world. By accident, maybe; I didn't get all the details, but it was me. Had to be, apparently.

I can't let that happen.

I know it's too much to ask for you to forgive me, but please try to understand. It's better this way. For the world, and for you. You still have Dad, and hunting, and the Impala. That's all you really need.

I know we don't say it, but I figure if there's ever a time to get sappy, it's now. So . . .

I love you.

Jerk.

Sam

Dean sank back into his chair. He couldn't – no. No. This wasn't – no.

"You remember?" Bobby asked gently.

No. No, this wasn't right. Sam was alive. Hollow and hurting, desperate and damned, but alive. Dean remembered –

Dean remembered fidgeting in the passenger seat of Dad's truck because Sam hadn't called at check-in, remembered Dad telling him to stop worrying, that Sam had probably just fallen asleep, remembered seeing Dad's eyes flicker towards the clock and his foot press down on the accelerator and knowing he was lying to them both –

Dean remembered breaking down the door when his shaking hands couldn't slide the key in, remembered ice flooding his veins as he took in the empty room, remembered catching sight of light under the bathroom door with hot relief, remembered turning the knob with an annoyed quip on his tongue –

— nononononono oh god no –

"No," he said, or maybe he never stopped saying it. That wasn't right. Sam had made that check-in, sounding tired and morose. Dean had stopped at a take-out place with a decent salad selection for dinner and walked through the motel room like a returning hero. Dean remembered Sam smiling at him, sitting a little closer to him than was strictly necessary, looking at him like – like he had saved his life. Dean remembered getting kind of worried, convincing Dad to let them take it easy for the next few days. Dean remembered –

–skin already cold no pulse in his pale pale neck no breath from his blue lips no life in his dull eyes Sammy Sammy Sammy –

"That's not what happened," Dean said, because it wasn't, it fucking wasn't, he remembered taking Sam out to ice cream the next day, Sam complaining that he wasn't a little kid anymore but ordering a banana split anyway, poking at it moodily while Dean tried awkwardly to talk to him. "So, uh, you doing okay, Sammy?" "Yeah, Dean, I'm fine. Why the fuck wouldn't I be." "I dunno. You just seem kinda . . . more emo than usual." He remembered Sam's petulant glare, his own helplessness has he scrambled to revive the conversation which had never really begun. "You know you can talk to me, right? I mean, if something's really up." He remembered Sam's hesitation, his eyes shining with everything they left unspoken, and the final floppy-haired headshake. "Yeah, I know." He remembered –

He's gone, said an EMT. For an hour, at least. Put him down DOA.

There was a sound like the howl of a dying animal. It wasn't until a blue-gloved hand plunged a needle into his arm that Dean realized it was coming from him.

"It was more than a decade ago, now," Bobby said, sad but calm, old pain. "Nineteen-ninety-nine. You and your daddy were on a hunt, and Sam . . . Sam swallowed a bottle of pills. Oxy. He was smart about it; you couldn't have gotten there in time, even if you'd known. They had to sedate you to get you away from the body."

The body. Sammy, so small and pale and cold. We'll give him a hunter's funeral, Dad said, something uninterpretable in his eyes. So they did. Dean lit the pyre and watched his whole world burn to ash.

"Dean." Bobby laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You with me, son?"

"This isn't right."

"No, it's not. But it's the way it is."

"No, Bobby, this isn't right," Dean got to his feet again, hands still shaking but his mind burning with that one absolute truth. This. Was not. Right. "I remember what happened, alright, but the way that I'm remembering it now is not the way it happened! This is just more fucking timeline bullshit, it's –" He stopped, realization hitting him. Fuck. Fuck. "God fucking dammit it wasn't fucking amnesia it was goddamn time travel. 'Saw the future.' Shit."

"What the hell are you talking about, boy?"

"Bobby, what do you know about angels?" Dean asked, rounding on him with new intensity. He could fix this. He would fix this.

"Know? Nothing. There's plenty of lore, but nothing concrete. No one's seen one in two thousand years."

So it had worked. No Sam, no apocalypse.

Fuck that. Nothing was worth Sam's life. Not a single damn thing. Not the whole damn world.

"So it can't be those dicks," said Dean, beginning to pace restlessly. He just needed to figure it out. Someone had something to gain from this. "They wanted the whole fuck-up. What about Yellow-Eyes, what happened to him?"

"John got him, five years ago. Died doing it. You were there, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever," said Dean, waving off his concern. Not Yellow-Eyes, then. "The other demons, who's in charge now?"

"How should I know? I don't make a habit of inviting demons over to chat about their boss."

Dean gave a growl of frustration.

"Alright, alright, probably not demons anyway. Bobby, what things do you know of that can time-travel?"

"Time-travel? Well, there are stories here and there, but Dean . . . they're not even lore, just stories demons tell around the campfire."

"What things, Bobby?"

"Don't take that tone with me, boy," Bobby said warningly. "You know you can't scare me."

"Sam's dead," Dean snarled, fist hitting the table with a bang. "He's dead and he's not fucking supposed to be, so you'd better be fucking scared because I'm gonna find the thing that did this and I'm gonna tear it to fucking pieces!"

"Tsk, tsk. Is that the best you can come up with?"

Dean spun around as Bobby sprang up with a curse.

"Son of bitch!"

The Trickster grinned.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"