Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1

A/N: So my good friend Chrissie0707 has done it again. She wrote another story, this time a one shot called "Digging My Own Grave", for the Providence universe. It's a prequel to "For What It's Worth" which is a prequel to Providence so I guess it's a prequel to the prequel to Providence. Go check it out, it is amazingly good. The story should be expanded, Chrissie and I are currently discussing how we want to approach this project.

Without further ado, chapter 20, I hope y'all enjoy and don't forget to review.

Through Glass

While you're outside looking in

Describing what you see

Remember what you're staring at is me

'Cause I'm looking at you through the glass

Don't know how much time has passed

All I know is that it feels like forever

And no one ever tells you that forever feels like home

Sitting all alone inside your head

Sam shifted on the Impala's bench seat and cast a tentative glance toward his brother. Since their conversation the previous night, Dean had been unusually quiet, responding to any questions or comments Sam dared pose with silence or, if he was lucky, minimal grunts of a noncommittal nature. The older brother he was familiar with, the one he'd grown up with, could be pensive at times, but he was never really prone to brooding. It wasn't uncommon for Dean to go quiet for a time when something was bothering him, but more often than not he moved past it quickly, falling back into easy grins and off-color jokes once he'd come to terms with whatever was troubling him or having simply decided to shove the issue to the side and barrel through.

This man beside him was more a stranger than a brother, and Sam was having trouble figuring out how to move around this version. He didn't know if there had been something specific that dropped Dean into this quiet funk or if he'd taken up bouts of gloomy silence as a kind of hobby in his later years. He didn't know which buttons he could push or how hard he could push them. He didn't know which tone or word choice would end with a shove against the wall or a slug to the jaw. He felt like he was walking on broken glass, stepping through a minefield without so much as the benefit of disturbed soil to give him a hint as to where the next bad step might be. He didn't know if it was a specific something that was bothering Dean and granting Sam this prolonged silence, and, even further, he didn't know if that something specific had actually come from him.

Well, Sam chastised himself with a sigh, propping his elbow onto the door and palming his forehead, that's not completely true. He knew something he said had prompted this silence; he just wasn't sure what that something was. He'd told his brother the night before that he didn't feel like he really knew the man, at least not like he'd thought he did. Shortly after that, Dean had all but shut down any further attempt at conversation on Sam's part, claiming to be tired and suggesting they both get some sleep before the long haul to Yale. He felt his brother's reaction had been a bit more exaggerated than the situation warranted and had simply thought—or maybe had just hoped—that given everything they'd supposedly been through, Dean would appreciate a little honesty in return.

Apparently not.

Dean had all but given up the ruse entirely, and the personality pushing through was becoming more of a stranger that'd seen the end of the world and lived to tell the horrific tale and less the familiar and seemingly fearless, easy-going man that had once sat in his spot, leaving that brother in danger and Sam in a fairly precarious position. Dean kept saying he was Dean . . . but there was so much about this man sitting behind the wheel that still felt like a mystery wrapped in an enigma then swathed in a paradox, just to make sure Sam was good and confused.

But on the better than even chance that it was Sam who had caused this funk, then he was determined to drag Dean back out of it.

He rotated his body once more on the seat, not enough to draw attention to the movement but enough to line up a better angle on his brother. Dean had crammed his body so close to the driver's side door that he had nearly become one with the car, his left shoulder wedged tightly into the corner where the seat met the window. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands and taking care not to move unless absolutely necessary. In the sporadic flare of passing interstate lights, Sam could see his brother's jaw clenched in poorly hidden discomfort, and now that he was really looking he could see that Dean's face was pale almost to the point of being nearly translucent and dotted with perspiration.

Of everything that was happening and everything that had happened, the one thing Sam knew without question, the one constant between the present and future, between this world and the one that would never come to pass, was that when it came to concealing pain from his little brother, Dean had a shit poker face.

His brother was in some serious pain, and, at some point, Dean was just going to have to accept the fact that he wasn't as stealthy as he thought he was. Every grimace, every wince, every groan—no matter how subtle the motion or how desperately he fought to hide it, Sam was catching and cataloging it all.

Sam paused in that moment; he had just thought that his brother was in pain, and it was the first time Sam had identified Dean as such since learning the truth without cringing internally, like he was feeding in to some sort of delusion.

He swallowed, heard the motion in the otherwise silent interior of the Impala. Dean's pain-tells seemed to be the same as they always had, and that meant it would more than likely take a fair amount of finesse to lure the man into any sort of conversation regarding the cause, just as it always had in the past. Except they were drawing nearer to their destination, and the window for trying to pry something out of his brother was shutting rapidly.

Sam cleared his throat. "So."

Dean twisted his head slowly, eyes narrowing like he was debating his answer before Sam even had a chance to ask his question, but instead only replied with a hesitant, "So?"

That single word was already more than he'd gotten all day, and Sam figured it was worth a tally mark in the "Win" column. He tapped his fingers on his knee, picked at a frayed thread in his jeans. "I was just thinking, about, uh, well, everything, I guess. And I was wondering . . . the, uh . . . the Cubs ever win the World Series?"

Dean didn't blink but stared so long that Sam began to grow concerned that the Impala didn't have a chance in hell of keeping to the road. But his brother and his car . . . it seemed that was a relationship that would never change.

Finally, Dean drew his head back, and an expression that almost seemed like one of his old smirks filtered through the mask. "Yeah, actually, they did. In, uh, two thousand sixteen."

Sam's eyebrows arched high across his forehead. "Really?" He hadn't actually expected Dean to answer him, and he certainly hadn't been expecting that answer. One didn't have to be a baseball fan or even understand details of the game to know the significance of a win like that. "Must have been one hell of a celebration for that."

Dean snorted softly. "Yeah." The smile started to grow, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Huge party." He paused, seemed to consider holding back the strike of whatever was next up out of his mouth. "Then Chicago was wiped off the map." And just like that, the flirtation with a smile was gone, and a cold sense of darkness sucked away everything but a deep pain that settled within the worn lines of Dean's face, lines Sam would swear weren't there just a few short months earlier.

Sam's shoulders slumped, jaw ticking and eyes roving the darkened but lively landscape outside the car. Given the late hour, the interstate was sparsely populated, but it was populated. The lights of a small town glittered in the distance, and the passing trees were lush and green in the shine of overhead moonlight.

If the future was as bad as Dean made it sound, then having all of this back should do well to lighten some of the load he'd been bearing. Instead, it seemed to be growing heavier with each passing moment, with every choice Dean made, and Sam was worried about what would happen when the last straw was placed, when the final blow landed.

Sam understood that they were on the clock and that there wasn't any time for either of them to relax and adjust to anything that had happened, was happening, or would never come to pass. But with his brother's eyes locked onto a distant point beyond the Impala's windshield, seeing something Sam couldn't even begin to imagine, he knew there was only one thing that could not only put this sullen look on Dean's face but keep it there.

"Is there . . ." Sam began hesitantly, encouraged when Dean didn't instantly cut him off. The window was still open, and he was anxious to take advantage of it while he could. "Is there anything I should know? You know, about me?"

Dean's mouth twisted into a frown, and he shook his head, running the flat of his hand along the curve of the steering wheel. Sam was familiar with the expression, one Dean would make when he was fighting with himself. When he had something he wanted to say, something he badly wanted Sam to hear but couldn't quite bring himself to put it into words because it might hurt them both. Like he had some kind of tentative control over reality, and whatever he was so fearful of wouldn't come to pass if he didn't give it voice.

Sam dropped his eyes, thinking over the events of the last few months. As far as he could gather, in the future he and his brother were on good terms, but there were things Dean had said, remarks dropped in the heat of the moment or without thinking that had Sam wondering otherwise. As brothers, it was expected that they would fight, sometimes about serious shit and other times about who left what lying around where it didn't belong, but some of the things Dean had let slip betrayed bigger fights. The type that left scars from actions or words beyond the scope of any permanent sense of forgiveness.

Dean's personality had always been of a somewhat edgy nature. He'd always been wary of other's intentions, but there had been times recently when he'd looked at Sam like he was waiting for him to either split and not look back or attack, and he couldn't quite decide which was more likely.

Suddenly, Sam wasn't sure he really wanted to hear Dean's response. He knew it would be unpleasant and difficult to hear, difficult to know and not forget, but the question was already asked. It sat in the air between them, and there was no taking it back now, so instead Sam steeled himself for what was coming.

The almost-smirk graced Dean's lips once more, and for a brief moment in time Sam felt a wash of relief that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't all bad.

Then, without warning or preamble, Dean sucked in a harsh breath of air and his whole body jerked like he'd been struck with an electric jolt, fingers tightening around the steering wheel before letting go completely.

"Dean!" Sam lurched to the left, one hand scrambling to gain control of the wheel and the other fisting the shoulder of his brother's jacket, shoving him back against the seat. The Impala was already veering off-course, and Sam blindly threw out his left foot, stomping in the direction of the brake pedal. He shot his brother a worried, fleeting look. "Dean, what the—"

Eyes screwed shut and panting for breath, Dean brought both hands to his chest and kicked out, the desperate violence of his reflexive movements knocking Sam's foot from its precarious position on the brake. His hand slipped from the Impala's steering wheel and she hooked a hard left.

The long screech of the side panel along the concrete stretch of median should have been more than enough to bring Dean's senses back in stereo, but he continued to struggle, and Sam found himself growing frantic to bring the car to a stop now. Heart thudding, he gripped his brother's shirt front, mumbled an apology, and hauled Dean toward the passenger side of the car, ripping him fully away from the wheel.

Dean sucked in a sharp gasp of air as though the touch, the movement, or the combination of both pained him even further than what was already going on inside his own body. Sam winched for his brother but had to focus on one thing at a time, and right now that one thing had to be stopping the car.

Sam slid along the bench seat, gripping the steering wheel and pressing an agitated Dean against the seatback. He knocked his brother's legs out of the way, put a firm boot on the brake, and stomped the pedal to the floor mat.

She jerked to a halt at an angle that was more off the road than on it, and Sam allowed himself only a brief moment to be thankful it was nighttime and the road had been meagerly populated.

He twisted awkwardly on the seat, eyes locking onto the spot where Dean was contorted: mostly behind him and sprawled against the passenger-side seat. In the sparse lighting of a well-placed street lamp, Sam could see that Dean's jaw was clenched so tightly that he momentarily worried his brother might crack a tooth. Dean's shoulders were pulled inward, so he was practically folded in on himself, and his curled fingers dug into his chest as his breathing hitched and spasmed between his teeth.

Dean was still conscious—mostly, and for the moment Sam was going to log that as another tally in the win column. He shifted more on his seat, sliding closer to his brother and pressing his fingers to the side of his neck. A frown twisted Sam's face as he immediately noted the heat of Dean's skin: he felt like he was on fire, and his pulse was beating so fast it seemed to hum under the pads of his fingers.

Sam moved his hand to grip Dean's shoulder, squeezing firmly as he leaned forward in an effort to catch the man's gaze. "Dean, come on, man. Talk to me."

Dean opened his mouth to respond but could only seem to manage a strangled cry. He rolled his head, pressing his face into the relatively cool comfort of the Impala's leather seats.

Anxiety swirled around Sam, clenching his lungs and squeezing until he could barely breathe. His mind rushed back to repeat the words the Trickster had spoken only a few days prior. Was this the result of Dean's unstable pair of souls? Dean couldn't be . . . it was too soon. The Trickster said they had at least two weeks, but what if he was lying? What if he simply didn't know shit?

Sam dug his fingers into the meat of Dean's upper arm, attempting to ground himself to the urgency of the moment and press down on the panic threatening to splinter his mind. He needed to be calm. Dean needed him to be calm.

Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. There wasn't much he could do for his brother in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere.

You can't do anything for him.

Sam gritted his teeth and pushed the errant thought into some dark, cobwebbed corner of his mind, forcing himself to narrow his thoughts down to what needed to be done and nothing else. He glanced out the window. They were still in the middle of the road, and for the moment the road was clear, but if another car came barreling around the bend . . .

Sam turned back to his brother, intent on rousing him enough to feel able to move him. "Dean." He took a shaky breath when Dean didn't even twitch. "Hey, man, I need to shift you over to the passenger side so I can get us out of here. You wouldn't want someone to hit your baby, would ya?" he added with a play at a smile that felt more like a grimace.

"Okay."

With some effort, Sam released his hold and patted Dean's shoulder, taking a moment to decide the fastest way to move his brother and do it without causing him even more pain.

Some tricky maneuvering, a few colorful words, and one banged and sure-to-be bruised knee later, he tugged Dean upright into a—hopefully—more comfortable mostly seated position on the passenger side of the bench.

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean's neck once more, found his brother's pulse still fast but no longer the terrifyingly erratic hum it had been moments earlier. He was about to slide into the driver's side when he caught sight of a thick dark liquid drip from Dean's nose.

"Shit." He reached over the front seat and grabbed for the cleanest-looking cloth available and pressed it gently but firmly under his brother's nose in an attempt to stem the blood. Dean's skin was still too hot, and his face was far paler than Sam was comfortable with. His breathing was a too-rapid succession of ragged gasps, hitching every few moments before starting again while his fingers dug senselessly into the center of his sternum. Sam was no longer sure if his brother was aware of what was going on around him or if he was even conscious at this point.

Sam pulled the cloth back, satisfied that the trickle of blood seemed to have abated, and he took an extra moment to make sure Dean was as comfortable as he could be expected to be. Then he slipped completely behind the steering wheel and shifted the car into drive.

He debated taking Dean to a hospital, but if this was a side effect from the unstable souls then there was nothing anyone in a hospital could do for him. They couldn't fix it, Sam mused as he chewed on his lower lip, glancing at the unsteady rise and fall of his brother's chest, but it was possible that they could treat the symptoms. Some of them.

Maybe.

Sam was flipping through a mental Rolodex of nearby hospitals that wouldn't alert the FBI to their presence when the shift shifted and a groan startled him from his thoughts.

"Dean?" Sam shot a glance over to his brother.

"Mmm?" Dean blinked tiredly, his fingers continuing to press and prod at the center of his chest.

"You . . ." Sam almost asked if Dean was all right but knew both the answer his brother would give and the truthful juxtaposition of what had just taken place. He licked his lips and started again. "Dude, what the hell was that? What happened?"

Dean shook his head, downplaying the pain or brushing his brother off, and Sam felt the overwhelming urge to smack the man.

"Dean, you can't tell me it was nothing. That wasn't nothing. You've got to talk to me about this, man."

Dean shook his head again. "That's not . . ." He winced, fidgeting in his seat until he found a comfortable position. "I don't know."

"You don't know what?" Sam shot a frustrated glance from the road to his brother and back again.

"What this"—Dean gestured sharply to his chest—"is. Trust me, if I knew, I'd tell you."

"Dean. Twice now, in just as many days, you've . . ." Sam frowned, searching for the correct word, one that would fully encapsulate the violence of the episodes without sending his stubborn ass of a brother running for the hills. "Collapsed in pain."

Dean winced visibly, casting his eyes away from Sam to just about anywhere else in the car, a guarded look that screamed of a guilty conscious. He shifted once more on the bench as the comfortable position he'd found already became unbearable.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Unless it wasn't just twice."

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "Don't we have more important things to worry about right now?"

"When?"

"Sam . . ."

"When, Dean? How many times has this happened and you haven't seen fit to tell me?"

"Like a freakin' dog with a bone," Dean muttered, heaving a sigh. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand like it was bothering him.

"At the diner," he relented. "When I was in the bathroom. Then . . ." He paused, frowning at the red spots decorating his hand. He pressed his lips together and quickly moved to wipe the blood from his fingers to his jeans. "A few other times, but none quite as bad as . . ." He gestured vaguely.

Sam tightened his hands around the steering wheel. "Is this because of the souls?"

"Considering it wasn't something that happened the first time around . . ." Dean gave a weak shrug. "Gabriel wasn't really specific on the side effects of an unstable soul, but that's where Vegas money's at."

Sam opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head to the side. "Gabriel?"

Dean made a face. "It's, uh . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck. "The Trickster's name. His real name."

Sam lifted a single eyebrow. "The Trickster's name is Gabriel?"

"Sure." Dean cracked a smile, or tried to. "You didn't think he just called himself 'the Trickster,' did you?"

"Well, yeah, you know, 'cause he does." Sam looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Gabriel seems like an odd name for a Trickster. I'd have thought it'd be something like Loki, or Eshu."

"Bless you."

"What?"

"What?"

They studied each other for a moment before Dean cleared his throat. "You wanna pay attention to the road?" Dean threw a hand toward the front window. "I swear, Sam, if you get a scratch on my baby . . ."

Sam scrunched his face, not even bothering to hide the grimace. "Yeah, about that . . ."