.-.-. Falling.-.-.-.

Summary:

With the memories of what happened merely two months ago still burning freshly in Dean's mind, he's trying his hardest to make sure his biggest secret remains just that, a secret - from the entire world. But when you're the Devil himself… how long can you keep yourself and your brother safe from a demon with other plans in mind? Sequel to Lucifer.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything associated with the show.

Quick reminder, this takes place during Season 2 and is an AU.

Author Notes: Thank you massively for still reading. It has taken me longer than I had hoped to get this chapter up, but you know how it goes. The best laid plans of mice and men. Judging by my hours at work, I'll be honest in that it'll probably be another two weeks before I get the next chapter up, so thank you for your patience.

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Broken Crown

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By the time they were on the road, the headache behind Sam's eyes was starting to lessen. He said nothing to Dean, but there was no doubting that Dean suspected something was up. He kept glancing toward Sam with worry in his eyes, but every time Sam caught him about to open his mouth, Sam would clear his throat and come up with a completely unrelated topic. Except, this time he missed his cue.

"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean finally managed to ask, his gaze flicking between the road and Sam.

"I'm fine," Sam lied, glancing only briefly toward Dean before focusing on the scenery outside the passenger window. Tree. Tree. Road sign. Tree. Boring as it was, it was certainly better than the images that kept playing across his mind ever since seeing that hunter at the Laundromat.

She was so familiar and yet so different to the woman that kept appearing in his mind's eye. Her face was weathered, sure, and her gaze was hardened through years of hunting. But there had been a smile there, and laughter crinkling up the corners of her eyes. So unlike the image Sam remembered. Haunted eyes. Pained. Bruised and bleeding. A sequence of numbers carved into her arm.

"He… gave you my number?"

"In a way."

It was just brief flashes. Like with his visions, leaving a migraine sensation in their wake. But they weren't visions or premonitions. They weren't images of what was to come. He knew in his heart that they were memories. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. It explained so much. The distance in Dean the last two months. The silence. The self-hatred in his brother's eyes whenever he spoke about himself. Because Dean remembered it all. Every last piece of what he had done, and Sam couldn't help but worry how Dean would take it if he knew Sam was starting to remember too?

"You gonna answer that?" Dean questioned, dragging Sam away from his thoughts.

"Huh?" Sam blinked, shaking the cobwebs from his mind.

"Your cell," Dean prompted and with those words, Sam's attention was brought to the tinny music coming from his pocket.

He looked at the screen only briefly before answering it and bringing it to his ear. "Heya, Bobby."

"Heya, yourself," Bobby answered. "Finally got rid of that posse. 'Course now I'm down a few bottles of moonshine, so next time you boys head this way, you better bring something strong with you."

Sam straightened up in his seat as best he could, glancing to Dean and meeting his gaze. "You okay, Bobby? They didn't…"

"No they didn't hurt me," Bobby answered, and Sam could practically hear the roll of his eyes through his indignant growl, offended that Sam even had to ask. "You think I was born yesterday, boy? I know how to handle a few hunters. Shotguns and whisky help. Once they drank me dry after I'd convinced them I hadn't seen you boys since last week, they took off North. So make sure you're anywhere but."

"It's okay, Bobby, we're headed to-"

"Bah!" Bobby interrupted. "Haven't I taught you boys anything? I said they took off, but they left a guard parked by the road, so for all you know, they could be listening."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You think they tapped your phone?"

"I don't think this crew would have the smarts to do something like that, but I ain't taking chances, and neither should you." Bobby let go of a sigh. "You know you boys ain't just got them to worry 'bout, right? Hunters talk and you boys ain't exactly unknown to the community."

"So what are you saying, Bobby?"

"I'm saying you boys better watch your backs, you Idjit!" A low frustrated growl. "But that's not why I called. Thought you ought'a know – Harry wasn't with them, which means your demon is probably still riding him as a meat suit and is out there trying to track you down."

Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Is there anyone out there that doesn't want to hunt us down?"

"At this point, I'd say that's looking like a big fat no."

Dean scoffed from beside him, letting go of a light, "Awesome."

At that, Bobby's voice turned quieter, no doubt realising that the eldest Winchester could hear him. The next words were obviously meant just for Sam, coming through the phone less clearly, but in the silence of the car, Bobby's voice still wasn't quiet enough.. "Hey, Sam – how's he holding up?"

Dean almost rolled his head off his shoulders with the excessive eye roll he sent Sam's way, his tone defensive and defiant. "I'm fine."

"Apparently," Sam answered, looking to Dean with a long gaze that said he didn't believe him for a minute, "he's fine."

"Sure, 'course he is," Bobby said in return. "Got the whole world hunting him down whilst he's got Lucifer himself locked up in his noggin. What's not fine about that?"

"He knows I can hear him, right?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Idjit," was Bobby's only response.

Sam could barely repress the smile that pulled at his lips. "I think he knows, Dean."

"Look - you boys stay safe and let me know if you find anything. I'll keep searching from this end, see if we can figure out how the hell we're meant to fix a broken soul. And Sam…?"

"Yeah, Bobby?"

"Call me. For anything. If you find something. If things go South and you need me there. You call me, I'll be there."

"Thanks, Bobby, for everything."

-*-*-666-*-*-

Blue Earth, Minnesota. It had been one of many pit stops for them in their childhood. If Dean was honest, most of the places they had stayed when they were young blended together in his memories. Another town, another school, another reason to hide himself away in hunting. Very few places stood out. Blue Earth and Pastor Jim's was one of those places. Some memories happy, some not so much.

Making their way through the streets toward Pastor Jim's old church, Dean's mind wandered back to one of the times his father had driven them along the same roads. The silence in the car had been unbearable; hardened… cold. The way his father wouldn't even look Dean's way, the way he would hardly even speak to Dean unless it was to bark another order.

"Dean, get the bags."

"Dad…"

"Bags, Dean!"

After the shtriga had attacked a sleeping Sammy, Dean had never forgiven himself for leaving his little brother alone that night. And John? Well, after the look in his father's eyes, Dean had found himself slipping even further into the role of the obedient solider. Pastor Jim had said nothing on the subject when John had dropped them off and rode off into the night once more. He said nothing of John's anger, nothing of the sullenness that had taken hold of Dean. He just looked at Dean with a sort of sadness in his eyes.

"Feels weird," Sam said, breaking Dean away from his thoughts as they parked up across the street from the church, "coming here knowing Pastor Jim isn't… you know, here."

Dean cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter in his seat, pushing down the memories and focusing on the present instead. He bobbed his head in acknowledgement and glanced at Sam briefly before turning his gaze toward the church. "Yeah, I mean… last time we were here I think I was the taller one – you know, the way it should be."

Sam said nothing, he just shook his head and followed Dean's lead in climbing out of the Impala. They didn't bother with badges or suits. After all, they didn't need to go undercover for this job. A halt truth would do and hopefully whoever now looked after the church would be more than happy to oblige. What could possibly go wrong? Dean's lips quirked at the corner in mild humour at the thought. In their line of work, anything that could go wrong would go wrong. It was the Winchester curse.

"You know we might not find anything, Sammy," Dean spoke up, eyes darting left and right, up and down the road before deciding it was clear enough to cross.

"I know, but we have to try." Sam followed, a half step behind, but never more than that.

"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up too much."

"One of us has to have faith." When Dean merely shrugged in response, Sam grabbed his shoulder and brought him to a stop at the foot of the steps leading up to the church. "Dean, we will figure this out, okay? One way or another, we'll find a way to fix this."

Dean never got a chance to respond, not that he would have known what to say. But his thoughts and worries were pushed to the side when the church doors opened and a young woman emerged accompanied by who Dean guessed must have been the new priest. The young Father held the door open for the woman, a smile on his face and a twinkling of hope in his eyes.

"Do not focus so much on things you cannot change," the young Father told the woman. He shook her hand and inclined his head. "Focus instead on the future and what you can do with it."

"Thank you, Father," the young woman answered, clasping his hand with both of hers and nodding. She took a breath and let go, giving one last smile before heading down the steps and past Sam and Dean.

Dean stared after her for a moment before realising Sam was already climbing the steps and calling out to the Father before he could re-enter the church. Dean span around to follow, plastering a smile on his face. Time to get to work.

"Father!" Sam called again, and the priest came to a stop, looking over both of them with that same serene smile on his face.

"Good afternoon," he greeted, holding his hand out for them each to take in turn and meeting both their eyes as he shook hands with them. Dean couldn't help but notice how young he was, barely a year older than Sam he would have guessed, but his bright blue eyes held something in them that suggested he was far from inexperienced. "How may I help you?"

"Father…" Dean started, waiting for the young man to fill in the blank name.

"Nichols."

"Father Nichols," Dean continued, hitching a thumb toward the church, "How long you been here?"

Nichols breathed out in thought. "A month now I believe. A temporary replacement, no more."

"Temporary?" Sam questioned, frowning at the young man.

"The church has suffered some… 'bad luck' the past year."

"Since Pastor Jim died by any chance?" Dean offered up.

It was Father Nichols turn to frown. "Yes, actually… I assume you knew him?"

"Family friend."

Sam cleared his throat. "It's actually why we're here. You see, Pastor Jim collected a lot of books and we were hoping some of them might still be here."

Father Nichols nodded, a beaming smile returning to his face. He held his arms out, motioning for the pair to enter the church. When they did, he followed them inside before taking the lead and heading further into the church. "I'm not sure how much help I can be, but I'll try my best. We have a library out the back so it's possible some books of his found their way into that. Then there's the basement – we've been doing a clear out and now that I think about it, I may have seen a couple of boxes with his name marked on them."

"Great!" Dean beamed back, coming to a stop near the altar and looking between the two doorways that Nichols pointed out. "Any chance you could show me them boxes while Sammy here checks out the library?"

"I'd be happy to." Father Nichols nodded. He turned to face the pair and hitched a thumb toward the library door at the back of the church. "It's a small library but hopefully you'll find what you're looking for."

Sam offered up a nod in thanks and made his way toward the door as Father Nichols lead Dean on toward the basement. It had been a fair few years since they had last been there, but Dean remembered the path well. He remembered when he had first found his way into the basement after following Pastor Jim down there and finding himself in awe of it all. Back when he was still young, when he had started questioning where John disappeared to and what he did those times when he was gone.

He clung to the memories – the ones of his childhood. His life. It helped him push back the other memories that circled just beneath the surface of the babbling brook that was his mind. The memories that came before Dean Winchester. The ones that were filled with blood and murder and pure rage. If he allowed himself to think on them, he could see them, could feel them, but they left him feeling hollow.

Father Nichols held the door to the basement open for Dean, allowing Dean to pass through first. "May I ask what it is you hope to find?"

"I'm not sure we even know," Dean answered, focusing on the steps downward, brow furrowed from all the thoughts going around it. He cleared his throat and cast a glance behind and at Nichols. "Hey, Padre, I know your take on the big guy, but what about the Devil?"

"The Devil?" Nichols questioned, his footsteps echoing with Dean's as they descended. "Are we talking literal or evil in general?"

"The Devil as in the actual Devil. You know, Lucifer and all that."

"Well, he was the first angel to fall," Nichols answered. "God could not tame him, so he came his own leader. He became the father of demons."

"Father of demons?" Dean repeated absently, passing through the second door at the bottom of the steps and into the room beyond.

It was nothing like he remembered. Instead of a place of awe, a hunter's paradise, it was just another empty room. Aside from a few pieces of broken furnishings here and there, there was nothing. He frowned, his gaze taking it in and his feet leading him toward a desk that had lost its leg. It was only kept half-standing because it was leaning against the wall, which put it in better nick that the overturned and empty bookcase beside it. He ran a finger across the thick surface of dust on the desk and stared at it like it would somehow quieten the alarm bells going off inside his mind.

"Yes, father of demons. He created the first demon after all," Nichols continued, his words followed by the clinking of the door closing and the click and scrape of metal. "He is the reason we exist."

Dean turned around just in time to see Nichols slide something into his pocket, hoping he had misheard the priest. "There aren't any boxes down here, are there?"

Nichols shook his head. "No."

Dean glanced around again, taking the situation in. "And you're not Father Nichols, are you?"

The gentle smile on Nichols face became a manic grin and his head tilted to the side. He blinked once to reveal deep, black eyes. "Oh, he's in here, somewhere. Just as my father is in there, somewhere."

-*-*-666-*-*-

The library truly was small. Certainly smaller than Sam remembered, but then that was what happened when you grew up. Things became smaller. The once great and grandeur places became small and normal and ordinary. But small didn't mean useless. There were dozens of books that, just from the spines alone, he knew held knowledge that could aid them in hunting. He remembered several of them from seeing his father reading them and several more he remembered reading through himself. Whether any of them could help with their situation was another matter.

He pushed on further into the library, his fingertips tracing over the books as his gaze flickered between each one in turn. There were at least three grimoires that he could see, which he knew by the very nature of what they were, had to have belonged to Pastor Jim. He wondered if anyone else had realised what they were or if anyone had even looked closely enough to see. Pulling one from the shelf, he flicked through it but nothing stood out. No mention of souls, just your standard information on demons and how to summon them.

He was about to put the book back when he stalled, pausing to take in the small mark in the leather along the spine. To anyone else, it was nothing more than a random mark or strange indentation from years of use – or misuse. But Sam recognised the symbol. It was a small version of the Celtic tree of life and it wasn't on the spine by accident. It meant wisdom and spirituality, amongst other things, and as Sam's fingers moved to the spine of the next grimoire, his suspicions were confirmed.

There was another one there. Pastor Jim had marked his books, the ones that could be used by those in the hunting circle. Hope flitted through Sam as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he found his energy renewed. His eyes studied the spines more closely now, his fingers feeling for anything his eyes may have missed.

Sun shone through the small window in the library and he found himself drawn toward the ray of light that played across one of the bookcases. The only book there that had the symbol on the spine looked to be in Hebrew from what Sam could gather. He tugged it free and flipped through the pages, as if hoping he would somehow gain the knowledge he needed to read it.

There were pictures though, and he found himself pausing at the image of an empty silhouette that appeared to be radiating light. He couldn't make out the caption below, but it put him in mind of other images he had seen in relation to chakras and spiritual energy. Maybe, just maybe... If only he could read it.

He snapped it closed, coming to a decision. They would just have to borrow it to get it translated. If Bobby couldn't do it, then they would have to seek out a Rabbi that wouldn't ask too many questions. At best, they could actually find a way to fix things. At worst, they would waste a few hours. They had nothing to lose by trying.

"It's gotta be worth a shot," he muttered under his breath.

He was about to turn away from the window when the faint scent lingering in the air caught his attention and his stomach dropped. For the first time, his eyes found the fine, off-colour dust along the window sill. A fine trace of sulphur. Realisation quickly washed over him, and with it – panic. Demons. Which meant…

"Dean…"

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Authors Notes: Thank you for reading!