"Sounds like a spell, and a pretty powerful one at that," Singer was saying on the other end of the phone. "You got any idea who cast it?"

"No," said John shortly. Given the nature of what he was beginning to uncover about Sam, any number of people and things could be interested in him, but he had no way of narrowing it down and no desire to let Singer in on his knowledge.

"I'll look into it, but probably trackin' them down is your best bet. Somethin' this big, shouldn't be too hard. Simple origin spell oughta do it."

"What do I need?"

"Nothin'. I can do it from right here. Still got Sam's hair all over a brush upstairs from the last time the boys were here."

There was a pause and the sound of movement. John made a sound of grudging gratitude which he wasn't sure could be heard over the phone. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Singer's help. He was aware of his own limitations when it came to research, and it had been real useful to have a free, safe place to drop the boys if they happened to pass through Illinois when they were younger, but the man had a tendency to overstep his bounds.

They were John's boys. Not his.

"How're they holdin' up?" Singer asked over the clink and rustle of his activity.

John glanced out the window to where his sons were talking. Dean looked angry and frightened, a big brother faced with something he couldn't fix. Sam looked tired and pained, an old man in a young man's skin.

"They're fine. This gonna take long?"

"Nope. Already done. You got any paper?"

John found some, and Singer reeled off a string of coordinates. A few miles to the west, probably just about the edge of town. John gave another grunt of gratitude and moved to hang up.

"John."

"What, Singer?" John replied, not bothering to keep his irritation out of his tone.

"Just remember that the Sam you're dealing with now ain't a kid. By my calculations he's been huntin' just as long as you have. He may even know more'n you do."

John hung up without a word.

"Dean, Sam," he barked as he stepped outside. Dean jumped to attention. Sam just jumped, visibly restraining himself from skittering backwards, though quickly recovered. Maybe he had been hunting for just as long John, but he looked more like the burned-out shells of men who had been doing the job for twice that. "Got a fix on where the spell came from," was all John said aloud.

"Nearby?" Sam questioned.

"Yeah. Leave now we'll be there in ten minutes."

"Okay," said Sam with a nod. He made a compulsive movement as if to reach for a gun at the small of his back, made a face, and tugged awkwardly on his ill-fitting clothes instead. "I'll need to borrow a weapon, I guess."

"You okay to be hunting?" John asked, examining him. He was steady on his feet, eyes clear, face controlled. Jumpy as hell, but being on high alert wasn't exactly detrimental when it came to hunting, as long as his trigger finger wasn't too twitchy.

"Yes sir."

"Alright," John agreed with an approving nod. Dean made a small noise as if to protest, but a stern look silenced him. A threat to Sam's safety was the only thing that can make Dean step out of line, but John knew what he was doing, and Sam knew his limitations. "Let's head out."

Dean didn't say a word as they gathered their weapons – guns, knives, holy water, salt – but something unhappy flickered over his face as he watched Sam check and load the borrowed handgun with automatic efficiency. John didn't know what there was to be unhappy about. This Sam was twenty-nine, he ought to be comfortable with a gun. It was only because of his spiteful obstinacy that he wasn't at fourteen.

Five minutes later they were on the road, Sam riding shotgun (Dean had moved for the front out of habit, but taken a look at Sam's long limbs and slid into the back with a grumble). The silence was heavy, and John was grateful when their destination, a long drive with a mostly-hidden house at the end, came into sight. John drove past until his found a place to park the car, an alcove with low-hanging trees which would shield the Impala from view.

"So what's the plan?" Dean asked when they had all climbed out.

"We circle around, through the trees," John said. "Approach from the west, see if there's anyone home. If there's not, we take a look."

"And if there is?" Sam asked.

"Then we'll see."

Dean nodded in agreement, and after a moment of hesitation, Sam did the same.

"It's probably a witch, isn't it?" Dean commented, attempting to sound casual but not quite masking the apprehension in his voice.

"Probably," John agreed. "Lots worse things it could be."

"Yes sir," Dean agreed, though John could tell his heart wasn't in it. The kid could put down a werewolf and dig up a corpse and stitch up a wound without even flinching, but he still got squeamish about the oddest things. It was a weakness, John supposed, but not one he could bring himself to be all that upset about as his boys fell into step beside him. Dean's nose was still wrinkled in disgust, his steps almost-but-not-quite silent as he struggled to imitate his father's movements with adolescent limbs.

Sam moved like a predator, not a trace of awkwardness in his height and not a noise rising from his feet.

The drive was empty and the windows were dark. There was no one home. John picked the lock in less than a minute and they stepped into the disconcertingly normal house.

At least, it was normal until they came to the living room.

Sam gave a sharp intake of breath. The furniture had been shoved to the side, the wall covered with maps and documents – and pictures. Pictures of children, all about Sam's age. One of them exactly Sam's age, in fact, and Dean let out a curse as he surged forward to rip the photo of his little brother – his little brother from the correct year, fourteen and smiling – from the wall.

"It's not a witch," Sam stated. There was a single low table beneath the perverse collage, littered with what looked like the remnants of a ritual. Sam dipped a finger in the stone bowl. It came up dripping with red, and his face twisted when he held it up to his nose. "Demon."

"How d'you –? Dean began, but John cut him off.

"Dean, go stand watch. Now," he added in a growl when Dean hesitated.

"Yessir." Dean departed, but not without a dark glance over his shoulder.

Sam was avoiding his eyes – or maybe he had just forgotten he wasn't alone as he examined the photographs, lips moving noiselessly around each name and fingers hovering over the young faces. He found a particular photograph and stopped, making a sound as though he's been punched in the gut.

"You know him?" John questioned.

Sam let his hand drop.

"I killed him."

"What was he?"

Sam let out his breath in something which wasn't quite a sigh and turned, meeting John's eyes. John's own words echoed back to him. He ain't the Sam you know.

"Human." Sam's lips twisted into a broken smile. "Like me."

.

After making his calls (which garnered next to nothing, as expected), Bobby stepped back into the cabin to find Dean, alone, attempting to twist into some position which looked both extremely uncomfortable and physically impossible.

"You tryin' to hurt yourself?" Bobby demanded, pushing the younger man back on the couch.

"Sammy's not answering me," Dean responded shortly. "Sam!" he barked over the back of the couch, obviously not for the first time. "He said he was going to look for a toothbrush – Sammy!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," Bobby said firmly, pushing him down again. Despite his leg, Dean had been more protective than ever the past week, not without reason. But a healthy, probably freaked out fourteen-year-old not responding to a voice he barely recognized was considerably less alarming than his older, cracked-in-the-head counterpart not answering his brother's urgent call. "He's probably just figurin' out how to use the laptop or somethin'. I'll go check on him."

Dean finally relaxed back into his pillow, the brief struggle more than enough for to exhaust his drug-heavy body. He muttered under his breath about pain-in-the-ass little brothers as Bobby stepped around the couch and toward the bedroom.

"Sam?" he called for the second time that day, tapping on the door. A faint hiccupping sound was the only response, and he pushed open the door, his stomach sinking. Sam was sitting against the wall on the far side of the room, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes shut and streaming, clutching something in his right hand. Balls.

"Bobby?" Dean called. "What's going on?"

"Nothin' you need to go panickin' about," Bobby answered. "And if you can't keep your stupid ass put I'll tie you down." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, cutting off Dean's half-hearted grumbles.

Sam opened his eyes and stared up at him, eyes deep and sad and strangely steady beneath the sheen of tears. As much as Dean (and Bobby himself, sometimes) still viewed him as a kid, Sam had always been an old soul. It kind of gave Bobby the jitters.

"Dad's dead, isn't he," Sam said, only half a question, voice barely wavering.

"Yeah," Bobby answered, sitting down on the bed and feeling his joints creak. No use lying. Sam had always been too clever for anyone's good. "Died a while ago now."

Sam nodded, his gaze dropping. There was a long pause, and when he spoke again his voice wasn't nearly as calm.

"Did I –" He stopped, licked his lips, swallowed hard. "Was it my fault?"

Of all the follow-ups Bobby might have expected, that wasn't one of them.

"'Course it wasn't," he responded, recovering quickly. "It was his own damn fault, just like it was always gonna be." He didn't like to speak ill of John around his sons, out of self-preservation as much as anything else, but he wasn't going to sugar-coat things, either. John had been obsessive, reckless at best and damn near suicidal at worst. It was a miracle he had survived as long as he had.

Sam didn't answer, his throat working again as he clenched his fist even harder about whatever he was holding. He looked very small in his brother's clothes, young and fragile. The look wasn't as unfamiliar as it should have been after all these years. For someone so strong, Sam was awful breakable.

"What d'ya got there, son?"

Silently, Sam opened his hand.

Bobby frowned at the small gold object. Its horns had dug into Sam's palm, leaving angry purple marks. He knew what it was, of course – he'd been the one to give it to the kid, and he remembered the circumstances which surrounded that Christmas well enough, though he had mostly pieced it together afterwards. John had broken one too many promises and Sam had given up on giving peace offerings when he was the one being wronged, instead handing the gift, and his trust, to Dean.

Dean hadn't worn it in a while. Bobby had figured Cas still had it, wondered vaguely if the delusional angel took any message from the fact that it wasn't heating up in his pocket. Yet here it was in Sam's hand, and apparently it meant even more to him than Bobby knew.

"It was in my bag," Sam stated, still not looking at him, voice slightly muffled by his arm. "Clothes and weapons and . . . this. Why –" He jerked his head up, eyes earnest and searching, tears spilling over once more. "Why would he take it off? Dean never – even in the shower – he dropped on a hunt and he went back for it, Dad nearly exploded – why –"

Bobby silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe you oughta ask him."

.

"The demon's name is Azazel." Sam worked as he talked, drawing an unfamiliar symbol on the hardwood floor beneath the front rug. A Devil's Trap, he called it. "He's not building an army. Well, he is, but that's not what the kids are for. He's looking for a leader. The new King of Hell." He said the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth.

"There can only be one king," John stated. There were dozens of children on the wall, boys and girls of all races.

"Yeah," Sam agreed grimly, rocking back on his heels to survey his work. "They're dead, in my time. As far as I know, anyway; I only met a few of them. It's a competition. Last one standing wins. And before you shoot me or anything, I'm not the King of Hell and I never have been."

"Didn't think you were," said John evenly, but it was at least half a lie and they both knew it. He didn't want to think that either of his boys could turn into something like that, but Sam had always been stubborn and self-righteous and rebellious, and the yellow-eyed demon had done God-knew-what to him before he could even talk, and here he was sniffing out demons and talking about killing humans . . . "Why these kids?"

Sam glanced up at him sharply.

"You don't know? About the blood?"

"Know the demon has plans for you," said John, figuring it was about time they had an honest exchange of information, especially considering it seemed like he'd come off better in this case. "Know it did something to you, and to a lot of other kids. Don't know anything specific, yet."

Sam nodded unhappily, laying the rug back in place and straightening up. Now he was definitely avoiding John's eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched.

"It's, uh . . . demon blood. Azazel's blood. He fed it to us when we were babies. Infected us. It sort of . . . gets into you, I guess. Like a disease or – or a drug. Except with really jacked-up side effects. Weird powers, and stuff."

"Like being able to smell demons," John deduced. He tried to keep his voice neutral (or at least tried to try), but Sam winced anyway.

"Yeah." His eyes cut to the side, as if looking at something John couldn't see, and hardened. He straightened suddenly, turning to meet John's gaze – to pin him, in fact, with startling intensity. "You need to stop hunting."

"You wanna run that past me again?" John asked, using the tone he knew would make either of his sons cower back no matter what they were arguing about. This Sam didn't even flinch.

"There's a hunter named Daniel Elkins. He's in Manning, Colorado. He has the Colt – it's real," he added when John opened his mouth to protest. "It kills demons. You need to find it, find Azazel, and kill him. Get help from Bobby and – and Ellen and anyone else you can think of, just kill him. And then get out. Stop hunting. Settle down."

"Yellow-Eyes ain't the only demon out there," John said, keeping his voice as even as he could manage while his mind raced. The Colt. A gun that could kill anything. If Sam was right about where to find it – John wasn't even sure he could stop hunting now, even when he finally caught up with the thing which had killed Mary, but with that sort of weapon on his side – Yellow-Eyes was only the beginning.

"You're not getting it," Sam snapped, frustration coloring his tone. "If you keep hunting, Dean will keep hunting, and if Dean keeps hunting, I'll get pulled back into it somehow. And trust me, you don't want any of that."

"You mean you don't want any of that," John corrected coldly, gut roiling with a sick mixture of anger and disgust. He'd known Sam tended to be selfish, especially when it came to his rebellion, but this was too much. To twist time to his whim, rewrite the past just to avoid going into the family business –

"No!" Sam snarled, his hand hitting the ritual table with a bang. He drew in a breath, forcing his temper back down, though his eyes still flashed as he spoke through clenched teeth. "You want to know what the future looks like if you keep going this way? You're dead. Dean's been the Hell and back, literally. I started the apocalypse."

"You did what?"

"It's a long story," Sam said. "And you know what it's written in? Blood. Our blood. Yours, and mine, and Dean's. Our friends'. Theirs." He pointed to the wall of children, nearly shaking with anger. "If you don't get us all out of this psychotic, masochistic, suicidal drug trip of a life, it will all happen. You'll die. Dean will go to Hell. I'll destroy everything without even meaning to. I –" Abruptly, he deflated, tension draining from his stance. His gaze dropped, and he seemed to physically shrink.

He looked like a beaten dog, John thought, and immediately hated the comparison.

"I didn't mean to," Sam said softly, almost to himself. He looked up again, eyes catching John's, damp and earnest. "Don't you see? You think you can control it, this life, but you can't. Your intentions don't matter. Everything just gets twisted around."

John thought of Dean snapping to attention and downing beers like water, Sam sitting still as a statue while he drew a needle through his skin and staring him down with resentment which was slowly turning to hatred. (He had only meant it to be a few months, a couple years at most. He had only meant –)

A birdcall rang out from just outside the window, out of season and out of place.

Both hunters were instantly alert, slipping silently into position, holy water in hand. The click of the door opening was followed by unhurried footsteps, and a moment later the demon stepped into the room – and into the trap.

"You –!" it exclaimed, eyes widening at the sight of John.

"Us," Sam agreed, and its eyes went even wider, head whipping around. It tried to take a step back and hit an invisible barrier. Some of John's tension dissipated, and Sam smiled grimly. "Devil's trap," he explained. "You're not going anywhere."

Just to be safe, the bound the demon to a chair – or rather, Sam did, with practiced efficiency, while John stood by with holy water at the ready.

"Now," said John as Sam stepped back. "Let's talk."

The demon sneered at him, the expression wrong on the round, friendly face of the poor bastard it was wearing.

"What, so you can feel smug when you exorcise me anyway? I don't think so, Pops."

Unfazed, John moved to administer the first splash of holy water, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Dad, you want to get some fresh air? I've got this."

Like hell you do was on the tip of John's tongue, but there was a look in Sam's eyes, a paradoxical combination of steel and pleading, which made him fall silent.

"Sure thing," he replied instead, tucking the flask away. "Holler if you want a hand." I'm not going far was the unspoken message to both Sam and the demon, and a tight nod and a roll of jet black eyes told him that it was received. He retreated into the hall and down a ways, making sure his heavy footsteps echoed loudly enough for Sam to hear, then doubled back silently.

He wasn't leaving this stranger alone with his secrets, and he sure as hell wasn't leaving his boy alone with a demon.

Sam had pulled up a second chair, folding himself into it and hunkering down until he was eye-to-eye with the demon. When he spoke it was in a gentle, even tone, as if he was speaking to a traumatized victim and not hell spawn.

"You know, this whole interrogation business, it's not really my thing," he said, almost apologetically. "It's really more Dean's area. But he's not here, and I can do it, if I have to." His voice shifted, still superficially friendly but now carrying a razor edge. "You really don't want me to have to."

Predictably, the demon merely sneered again in reply.

"You think you can scare me, kid? You ever been to Hell?"

Sam let out his breath through is nose in something which might have been a laugh.

"The question is, do you think you can scare me? Ever been in the Cage?"

John Winchester had never seen a demon look afraid. Too be perfectly honest, he hadn't seen that many demons, period, but the ones he had met had always been varying degrees of smug and angry. Now, however, the demon paled with something which looked an awful lot like terror.

"It's a myth," the demon protested. "There is no Cage."

Sam laughed, flat and mirthless, and John's stomach turned.

"Lucifer would beg to differ."

Lucifer. John's blood ran cold. Lucifer was a legend; everyone said so. He was a symbol the more idealistic demons believed in, the way some humans believed in God. He couldn't possibly have anything to do with this older Sam's odd fits and twitches, the way his eyes sometimes flickered towards nothing . . . as they did now, judging by the demon's next words.

"What are you looking at?!" the demon demanded, real panic creeping into its voice and over its stolen face.

"I think you know."

"Lucifer. Isn't. Real," the demon insisted.

Sam leaned forward, suddenly looming as he used his entire bulk to his advantage. John couldn't see his face, but it must have been damned terrifying, because the demon jerked against its bonds in a desperate attempt to get away.

"Lucifer," Sam said, low and deliberate, "is whispering suggestions in my ear. Now you either start answering my questions, or I start taking them."

The demon whimpered.

"Alright, alright! I'll tell you anything you want to know!"

Sam sat back.

"Good." He glanced towards the door. "Dad." It wasn't a question. He should have known his boy wouldn't fall for such an amateur trick, John reflected as he stepped back into the room. His boy who could see Lucifer and frighten demons and looked at him with old, old eyes.

Sam's lips twisted into the shadow of a smile, as if in some attempt at reassurance. It only made John's heart clench further, so he dragged his eyes back to the demon, letting cold fury numb the pain in his chest.

"You cast the time travel spell."

"Yes."

"How do you reverse it?"

"I – I don't know. It was only supposed to open a window, let me see, but –"

"But you decided to spice up a white magic spell with a bit of blood and darkness and got more than you bargained for," Sam finished for him impatiently. "The original spell, how did that one end?"

"It just – stopped. On its own. Twenty-four hours, I think."

Which meant this Sam might snap back to his own time like a rubber band – or he might be stuck this way until they (or more likely, John admitted reluctantly in the privacy of his own head, Singer) could figure a way to fix it. Something to deal with later. In the meantime, John had some questions of his own.

"Why?" he asked. "Why cast the spell, why Sam?"

The demon's gaze darted to Sam.

"Answer the question," Sam ordered, looking resigned.

"Because . . . because he's the favorite. Of Azazel's children." It licked its lips nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. "It's time to choose allegiances. Something's coming. Everyone knows it. Hell is splitting into factions as we speak."

"You want to know what horse to bet on," Sam stated. There was a note in his voice which John couldn't interpret. His face, when John looked, was inscrutable.

"Well . . . yeah," said the demon with the parody of a smile. "Can't blame me, can you? I mean, Azazel, Lilith, if you're going to side with one of them against the other you kinda wanna know you're on the winning—gk!"

Sam had surged to his feet and wrapped a hand around the demon's throat, cutting off its speech and a good portion of its air.

"You listen to me," he said, his voice deadly soft and perfectly controlled. "It doesn't matter what side you're on. Nothing will prepare you for the shitstorm that's coming. Nothing will keep you safe. But if you come anywhere near me and my family ever again, you will be dead before you even think about touching us. Not exorcised, not onto the next meatsuit. Dead. Do you understand?"

The demon nodded frantically, as best it could with Sam's hand still closed on its neck. Sam released his grip and stepped back.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus . . ."

The exorcism flowed from Sam's mouth more smoothly than anything else he had said, easy and automatic, as if he had recited it a thousand times. But demons were rare – at least, they were rare now.

"Something's coming."

Black smoke poured from the possessed man's mouth, and the room fell silent. The body slumped, lifeless.

"He's dead," said Sam flatly. "I'm going to check on Dean."

He stalked out and John followed, sparing one last glance for the wall of photos behind him. Children. Sam's age. Smiling. Doomed.

"You need to stop hunting."

Sam's voice broke through his thoughts as he stepped outside.

"Where is he? Dean! Oh, dammit . . ."

Sam rounded the house in three long strides, John at his heels. Sam came to a halt, swearing under his breath, and John shared the sentiment. Dean had obeyed orders. He was keeping watch, right outside the window. The open window.

Or rather, he had been keeping watch. Now he was sitting in the dirt, face white, hand clamped over his mouth, crying silently.

"Dean," Sam said softly, sinking into a crouch in front of his brother. John, as he so often did when he watched his boys interact, felt that he was intruding.

Dean shook his head, pulling his hand away and setting his jaw.

"The Cage," he began, and Sam flinched. Dean winced in sympathy, but kept going. "It's where they keep Lucifer. How'd you – why –"

"I had to," said Sam, matter-of-fact, tinged with sadness, maybe, but no bitterness. "I freed Lucifer, so I had to put him back. Drag him down with me. It was the only way."

He had jumped in, in other words. Willingly. John felt cold, and Dean went a sickly shade of green.

"You – but – how long? How long were you –?"

"Dean, don't – don't do this to yourself," Sam pleaded.

"How long?" Dean insisted.

"I don't know," said Sam with a shake of his head. "Time's different down there."

"Estimate," Dean snapped, using anger to cover for fear and pain and worry. It was a technique that John knew well. "We talking days? Weeks? Months?"

Sam's gaze dropped, and he muttered something unintelligible.

"Didn't quite catch that, Sammy."

"More like . . . centuries."

John could barely hear Dean's retching over the sound of his own thoughts screeching to a horrified halt. Sam had – his boy – centuries

Dean was pushing himself back up, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand.

"Sammy," he whispered brokenly, staring at his too-big little brother, who stared back with sorrowful (broken, Sam was broken) eyes. "Oh god, Sam –"

And suddenly it wasn't his too-big little brother anymore. Suddenly it was just his little brother, fourteen and teary and making a sound of confusion and alarm as Dean pulled him into a bone-crushing hug and began to sob.

". . . you don't want any of that."

No, John realized, watching his boys cling to each other in fear and pain. He really, really didn't.

.

Bobby steered Sam into the main room, pushing him along while he dragged his feet.

"Bobby, what the hell –" Dean began angrily, but cut himself off when he twisted enough to get a look at Sam. "Sammy, what's wrong?"

"Go on, son," Bobby prompted, giving Sam a more-or-less gentle shove in his brother's direction. With visible reluctance, Sam rounded the couch. Dean's eyes were on him the whole way, forehead creased with worry and bewilderment.

"Sam, what –?"

Sam let the amulet drop down from his fist, swinging from the cord which he kept clutched with in his hand. Dean seemed to physically stop breathing.

"It was in my bag," Sam said softly, but with an undeniable note of accusation. "Older me's bag. At the bottom, like I didn't want anyone to find it."

"Sammy . . ." Dean whispered brokenly, and Bobby was ninety-nine percent sure he wasn't talking to the teenager.

Said teenager reached out and set the amulet on the table between them, carefully, watching his brother's reaction. Dean made a compulsive movement as if to pick it up, but pulled back. He looked as though his world had just cracked in half (again). Bobby wondered what the hell that damned necklace meant to the two of them, because he was clearly missing something.

"What happened?" Sam asked, voice trembling.

"Dammit, Sam," Dean muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face, the words still only half directed at the person in front of him. "I was a jackass, that's what happened," he said, dragging himself back to composure with visible effort. "I was pissed off, so I did something which I figured would piss you off. Guess it didn't quite work that way."

Sam's eyebrows drew together in confusion and betrayal.

"But why?" he asked desperately. For all his brains, the boy obviously couldn't fathom the idea of his brother hurting him deliberately. "What did I –"

"You didn't do anything, Sammy," Dean said, sounding as if the words were being dragged over broken glass. "I mean, yeah, you messed up, we both did, but – you tried, dammit, you tried so damn hard, even when the whole world was set against you. And you won, man. You beat it. And –"

Dean paused, throat working. Bobby wondered just how much of this he would be saying if he were completely sober.

"—you're still my little brother, no matter what you do. Nothing can change that. You hear me?"

Sam nodded, biting his lip. He opened his mouth to reply, and then –

"Jesus!"

– he was six-foot-four again, catching himself on the coffee table as he pitched forward.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, jerking upright as best he could while still sitting down.

"Dean," Sam replied, steadying himself and straightening up. "What – that was real, right?" His eyes landed on the amulet, still sitting between them, and the color drained from his face. He snatched it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his ill-fitting jacket – John's, Bobby realized, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. So it had been that kind of spell.

"Yeah, son, it was real," Bobby answered. "You alright?"

"Yeah," said Sam unconvincingly. His eyes flickered towards something which wasn't there. "Yeah. I should, um, get changed." He started towards his bedroom.

"Sammy."

Sam turned back, pained and hopeful. Bobby absolutely did not hold his breath, because he wasn't that sort of sap, but damn if he didn't want to see the kid get a break after what had to be a solid six hours of old scars getting torn open.

Dean stared at Sam, a thousand emotions warring on his face.

"You sure you're alright?" he asked at last.

Sam's lips twisted into a smile beneath wounded eyes.

"Yeah. I'm fine, Dean."