Author note: Second-to-last chapter! Holy shit, this was an incredibly difficult one.

Thank you so much to whereupon, onlythefireborn, firesign10, and sylvia_locust, all of whom improved our story in different ways, but I have to give a special shout-out this time to firesign10, who alone saved us from calling Bobby "Bobbly" in the middle of a very serious scene.

Hey, we made a mailing list! Subscribe here (replacing the all-caps with the punctuation described: eepurlDOTcomSLASHdjG06b) if you want to hear about our future projects, including possible original-fic adaptations of Freak Camp! We promise not to spam. Seriously, these updates are not going to be be super frequent, unless MANY AWESOME THINGS happen in a row.

Also, a note on recent/ongoing events here in the United States, and why this particular chapter took so long to write:

Look, when we started this story nearly eight years ago, in the oh-so-innocent year 2010, I thought the parallels to current American atrocities began and ended with Guantanamo Bay. The bigger influence was, of course, thinking of the Holocaust camps during WWII.

And then I found myself watching footage of my senator trying to enter a facility with blacked-out windows , where reportedly hundreds of children are being kept after my government forcibly took them away from their families, and I almost lost my mind.

At some point last year, I realized that the (so-called) President talks like a Freak Camp guard. And I think I already observed how our recent chapters (including one, funnily enough, about horrific scandals involving state-sanctioned violence against children that wake up the country!) are just surreal to write now, despite how we mapped them out years ago.

But now every day I'm reading about atrocities that are closer and closer to what we've written, and it makes me want to run screaming into the sea. This is not fun. I do not enjoy these parallels.

Writing these last two chapters is going to be cathartic in a way I never expected them to be, but it will not be near enough. Nothing will be, in fiction alone. So I've set up a recurring donation that's split between a bunch of not-for-profit groups dedicated to helping the kids and families now detained at the border (or consider the Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights and the Refugee and Immigrant Center for Education and Legal Services), and I hope you will too. Even if it's just a few dollars a month, it will help so much if we all do it together.

And (more directly to fellow Americans here) make sure you're registered to VOTE in November! Vote these Freak Camp-wannabe motherfuckers OUT.

-Lavinia (with Brose co-signing this)

Chapter Forty

Sam frowned at the greasy laminated menu after Dean left for the restroom. They'd been in this bar a lot lately, asking veiled questions about a possible cursed object. The food wasn't that bad. The fried pickles were apparently good enough that Dean had wanted to drag them back here even with the case mostly wrapped up, but if Sam never had to eat one of those weird sweet-sour things again, he'd be just as glad.

He was debating the merits of a cheeseburger (generic, but trustworthy) or something called "The SUPREME Smelt Platter" when the hunter walked in.

The man had grey at his temples and a slight limp; he looked innocuous enough, but Sam felt gut-punched. He saw Sam at the same moment that Sam's breath-stealing panic supplied a name: Henry Miller. He'd been in on a few interrogations when Sam was in Freak Camp, always with another hunter or two. Sam would have classified him as an asshole, but not a sadist. But for hunters, and with Dean out of sight, all bets were off.

Sam could spot a hunter by the way they moved, how they looked around a room, confident that they could kill anything that gave them trouble. He imagined he could see the freak-killing aura that hung on their plaid overshirts and rough jeans. He wondered sometimes if someone had gotten a photo of him from some surveillance tape (inside or outside of FREACS) and passed it around: Watch out for Winchester's monster.

Hunter Miller grinned at him and sauntered over to the bar. His clothes were rumpled, as though he had slept in them, and Sam could see the butt of a weapon (maybe a knife, maybe a gun) at the small of his back even under his overshirt. He leaned toward the bartender, flashing his ASC ID. "I'm looking for freak activity in the area," he said, still grinning, like the man should be in on the joke. "Seen anything?"

The barkeeper, a tall, built man with tattooed dragons crawling over his right arm, stepped away from the ID. "No," he said, "nothing like that."

Competent hunters didn't flash the ID. The supernatural made people nervous, which meant that hunters made them nervous. Dean had other reasons not to use ASC identification (and Sam had frankly refused to let Dean get him a fake), but the lack of information the badge produced was the main reason they usually asked their questions without coming out as hunters.

Hunter Miller looked around again, more obviously this time, and he made a show of being surprised when he saw Sam at the bar. "Well, if I don't see a monster, right here in your own little establishment."

The bar, already hushed, went electric in its silence. Sam felt every eye turn toward him.

He and Dean had had six years of mailed and face-to-face threats, petty hassles. Most vividly in Sam's mind was the time someone left a dog leash hanging off the side mirror of the Impala; he'd managed to pick it up gingerly and toss it in the trash before Dean saw it. To a certain point, Sam was...accustomed to hunters and their power games. He had a system for dealing with it that usually led to the lowest number of injuries for everyone. But he still hated feeling his stomach clench and lungs constrict when he saw them. In their eyes, he would always be Dean's monster, and Dean a freakfucker. Facing their sneers and hatred, he heard a distant, snarling voice telling him he wasn't worth it, that Dean deserved better.

For Dean, and for himself, he told that voice to go to hell. But it never really shut up in a moment like this.

Trying not to provoke the hunter or further alarm the watching civilians, Sam took a careful breath and fixed his eyes on the bottle of beer before Dean's seat.

"Don't worry, civvy," Miller said, still pitched so the entire bar could hear him, "this monster is under control. Right, Sam?"

When the hunter came within a few feet, a familiar nasty smile on his face, Sam looked up and stared him straight in the eye. "Dean has given me permission to retaliate against anyone who touches me without his approval," Sam said, holding eye contact. "That includes hunters." Actually, Dean's words had been something along the lines of You hit first and ask questions later, Sam, but he knew his version was less likely to start a fight. Hunters were more afraid of Dean Winchester than his monster, whether or not they were willing to admit it.

Miller looked surprised. Instead of going for the seat next to Sam, he took one over an arm's length away. Not so brave when someone talks back, Sam thought.

"Who said I wanted to touch you?" he said. "That Winchester's seat?"

Sam glanced at it and Dean's half-empty beer. "Yeah."

The hunter grabbed the beer, rolling the edge a little on the table, fingering the neck and watching Sam. In the part of his mind that was neither running through fight-or-escape routes nor hyperventilating from fear, Sam wondered whether Miller was trying to threaten him or turn him on.

"So, where is he?" Miller asked. "Finally decided to stake you out to catch other monsters?" He leaned forward, grinning. "Or did Winchester decide your ass wasn't worth the trouble? I always thought it couldn't live up to the hype. Never got a chance for a test ride, though. He ever loan you out?"

Sam rolled his head slowly around his shoulders to loosen tense muscles. It had been years since he was honestly afraid that Dean would leave or use him. He rarely even had nightmares about it anymore. Even so, comments like that—offered like clockwork if a hunter found him when Dean wasn't around—still made him twitch, an old scar that didn't so much hurt as remember the pain.

"Caught you, didn't I?" Sam said. "Guess I draw out the nasties."

Miller's lip curled. "Watch your tongue, freak, or I'll cut it out."

Sam saw Dean come out of the bathroom and pause to assess the situation. Dean's right hand slid toward the gun at the small of his back, and Sam wished that he could give their abort signal without alerting the hunter. As it was, he didn't want to look away from Miller's face. The man would take advantage of any distraction.

"I don't think Dean would be happy to hear you talking like that," Sam said. He pitched his voice to carry. The civilians already knew this was a hunter problem; might as well make sure they knew that Sam wasn't a runaway monster. "And he's a hunter, too, remember."

Behind him, Dean's face changed. He looked around the bar, saw the crowd that was carefully not looking at the little drama unfolding, and slid his hand from his gun to his knife. Then he made his move.

"Winchester dishonors the name," Henry Miller spat. "He's no better than the monster he fucks."

"Damn right." Dean grabbed Miller by the shoulder and rested the bare blade of his hunting knife against the other man's neck. "I'd tell you to say that to my face, Miller, but if you turn around I'm going to sever your spine. You good, Sam?"

Dean in place, Sam could let some of his nerves, and temper, show. "Could be better. Dean, you should show your ID to the barkeep."

"I think he knows I'm legal, Sam."

"Your other ID," Sam corrected.

Dean understood, pretty damn fast. "Could you get it, Sam? I'm a little occupied."

Sam stood, walked past Miller and behind Dean. He was very aware of all the eyes on him, the civilians that were surely terrified—of Dean, of the asshole, of him, what difference did it make? He reached into Dean's jacket, sliding his hands up his shirt to the pocket where he kept the ASC ID. Somewhere else, Sam might've kissed Dean's neck, brushed his nose against Dean's ear; he missed the comfort that would have brought him. Instead, still moving slowly, he withdrew the ID and held it out to the bartender.

"Dean Winchester is an authorized hunter with the Agency for Supernatural Control," he said, working to look unthreatening and polite. "My name is Sam Winchester and I am a monster under Dean's complete control, both practically and legally. There are papers in our car, if you need the proof."

The barkeeper stared, first at the ID and then up into Sam's face. "N-n-no, that is fine."

Sam nodded, still trying to look as calm and restrained as possible, even as his nerves were tight enough to break, stiff enough that it was almost painful. He didn't mind saying it. It was still true. But the way Dean reacted when Sam called himself a monster hurt him more than the words ever could.

Sam looked back to Dean. His face was stony, expressionless, and his knuckles were very white on his knife.

"Anything else, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean's jaw clenched, and Sam moved back to him, slipping the ID into Dean's front jeans pocket, then sliding his hand over Dean's arm, down his wrist, until he could tighten his own hand around Dean's on the knife and pull it back just a hair.

You're a monster under Dean's control, you're a monster under Dean's control, Sam thought, trying to project that thought into the civilians, into the hunter under Dean's blade. In that moment, it was very much not true.

"Please, Dean," he whispered, then flickered his eyes around the room. "Civilians." We don't need anyone else getting hurt.

Dean looked at him, eyes hard and oddly blank. Then he looked away and leaned over the hunter's shoulder.

"You want us, you piece of shit, we'll be outside," Dean said into his ear. "But after that, you come within fifty feet of us again, you so much as say Sam's name, and the knife won't stop at your collar, you understand me?"

The hunter let go of the half-full beer, and it tipped over and sloshed over the bar and onto his leg. He licked his lips. "Yeah. I got it, Winchester."

Dean stepped back. "Good. Come on, Sam."

Sam followed Dean closely out the door, keeping all his attention on the hunter behind them. If Miller made a move, whether to go for his gun or a knife, Sam would put him down before Dean could, but then they would have to get the hell out, and fast.

Henry Miller stayed at the bar, only the hatred on his face a sign that he was still a threat.

Outside, Sam headed toward the Impala, but Dean stopped by the wall about fifteen feet from the door and turned around, his hands settling on his hips.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded, voice rising now that they'd made it outdoors, a solid wall between them and the hunter-threat.

"I told him we'd be waiting outside," Dean said. "I'm seeing if he's stupid enough to take me up on it."

Sam gritted his teeth to stop from growling. All he wanted was to get in the Impala, drive to a hotel somewhere far away from that asshole, and curl up with Dean so he could drive the last shivers of adrenaline and old fear away. He wheeled around, grabbed Dean by the shoulders, and shoved him into the wall. "You're being a fucking idiot." And then, because Dean's mouth was so close, his eyes wide, lips half-parted, Sam kissed him, hard.

Dean's lips opened for him, his hips shifted against Sam's, and his shoulders relaxed under Sam's grip.

Sam broke it off after a few seconds, not wanting to be distracted if Miller was stupid enough to follow, but he smiled to see that Dean looked dazed and shaken, the blank rage gone from his face.

"You took that asshole really personally," Sam said. "More than usual, I mean."

Dean reached up and kneaded the back of Sam's neck while his other arm tightened around Sam's waist. He took a couple deep breaths. "Miller. He gave me the idea, so fucking long ago. I didn't know that I could get a frea—someone out of FREACS, but he was doing it and I thought, maybe I can get Sam out. So maybe I should go back in and thank the bastard, but I just want to punch him in the face. You are not my fucking monster, Sam. You are not a fucking monster."

"I get that, but you can't go off the handle and almost get us killed. Even if you did look very sexy doing it." Despite himself, Sam kissed him again, enjoying the clean heat of Dean's skin driving all the old pain and new worry away.

Then he pulled away, dragging Dean by the arm toward the Impala. "C'mon, drive us home."


They didn't go home right away. The cursed object (which they did eliminate, no thanks to Henry Fucking Miller) led to a Bigfoot sighting with possible aggression. They didn't find Bigfoot, but they stumbled on someone producing hex-bags for a small fee. From there they made their way digging, salting, burning, and stabbing across the supernatural population within a three-county radius of their original job, and Dean for one was really glad to finally drop his duffle just inside the door of their condo in Boulder and stretch the kink out of his neck.

He dropped onto their battered couch with a groan and dumped their bag of mail onto the coffee table. He loved his baby, but it was good to be out of the Impala for once, with no plans to leave anytime soon.

Sam locked the door behind him and went into their tiny kitchen, opening cupboards to check on the state of their supplies, putting away the food that had survived the last leg of their trip—a bag of M&Ms left over from their stop in New Mexico, and a half-eaten pizza. He hummed a Dave Matthews Band tune while he put stuff away.

When Dean finally had the urge to move, he sat up and started sifting through the unholy piles of mail that always seemed to accumulate in their Boulder P.O. box when they were gone.

Mostly it was the usual. Piles and piles of junk mail, the occasional bill that Dean didn't have set for automatic payment, a couple packages—one from Bobby and one, intriguingly, without a return address.

After tossing most of the junk mail and sorting out what ought to be at least opened, Dean reached for the unmarked package first because it looked like the more interesting of the two.

"We're out of milk," Sam called.

"Oh no, milk," Dean said, running a protection amulet around the edges of the package. It was hard for a non-hunter to figure out who they were or get their address, but it was better safe than cursed by some hedge witch who thought he could get the drop on them through the U.S. postal system.

He could hear the laugh in Sam's voice. "We're also out of beer."

Dean slammed the package down on the table, where it made a satisfying thump, and stood. "Not the beer! Come on, Sammy, we've got to get back out there!"

Sam turned and leaned on the breakfast bar between the living room and the kitchen, smiling. "I think I can handle it. You stay and deal with…that." He waved his hand at the envelopes that had scattered over the coffee table and across the floor. Some had fallen so far that they looked like they might be trying to crawl away. "I can get the beer."

"You sure you don't need me?"

"Always. But not for a milk run."

"Beer run."

Sam grinned. "We're pretty much out of everything, so I might pick up some salad ingredients too. Maybe a kohlrabi."

Dean sat back down and snapped out his knife to cut through the package's tape. "You can get the rabbit food, but you get two-percent, you hear? Don't waste our hard-earned money on that bullshit skim stuff."

"I like the skim stuff," Sam said.

"You need meat on your bones," Dean said, from long habit more than any real truth. Sam looked every inch of the badass he'd always been. "And how are you going to get that drinking watered-down moo juice? Come on, Sam, give me something to grab." He put the knife down and made grabby hands. "Which reminds me, we probably need lube."

Sam laughed, ducking his head with only a hint of a blush that Dean felt absurdly proud of. "I'm leaving now. Don't drown in the mail before I get back."

"Don't you run off with the bagel ladies!" Dean called.

He could hear Sam laughing all the way to the door.

God, it was good to make Sam laugh, and good to be home.

Dean looked down at the box and gave its tape one last yank. The cardboard box split, and half a dozen VHS tapes fell out. Their new white labels looked very bright against the scuffed black tapes.

Dean picked up the top one, read the neatly printed script, and felt all air leave the room.

Special sessions (multiple) 1999: 88UI6703, Director Jonah Campbell, Elmer "Crusher" Davidson, Victor Todd

The same hand had carefully written Sam in parentheses below the identification number.

Dean stared at the label for a long minute. This can't be what I think it is. This can't be…I don't want to know.

But he had to. Hands shaking, he stood, walked to the TV, shoved the tape in the player, and sat back down on the couch.


Sam forgot sometimes, when they were away from Boulder long enough, what it felt like to be somewhere familiar. He'd made the run for milk and veggies (and beer), chatting for a good twenty minutes with the cashier about their "work trip" and the kid's latest classes at the University of Colorado–Boulder, before he finally got away, feeling lighter even while weighted down with the supplies.

He had just pushed open their apartment door when he heard a voice he had begun to believe he would never hear again.

"This is what I expect of you. And this is what happens when you fall short." The sound of a blow, followed by muffled whimpering. "Do you understand now? Remove the gag so he can answer me, please."

The grocery bag slipped from between his fingers to the ground, and Sam threw himself through the condo doorway. He didn't have his fucking gun on him, didn't have more than a knife, didn't believe those or any weapons would overpower the Director, but there wasn't any fucking space in his head for fear or planning or even self-protection when all he could think was Dean Dean oh fuck no not Dean.

Dean jumped to his feet when Sam came into the room, hand flying to the gun he usually wore in the small of his back, but he dropped it as soon as he saw Sam. His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet, but he was alone in the room. Unharmed.

Sam stopped, swayed. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Dean said.

"He ain't moving," Crusher said.

Sam's eyes snapped to the TV.

The screen showed an overhead shot of the room in which he had spent so many Wednesdays. The Director and Crusher were there, standing over the crumpled, emaciated form of a boy that Sam distantly recognized as himself. Everything was distant now; the reality of their apartment receding, Dean standing with wide eyes, the key gripped in Sam's hand. The only thing sharp and hard in the entire room, except for the frantic beating of Sam's heart, was the Director looking down at that crumpled boy on the screen.

"He's...not really here." Something was wrong with Sam's breathing. He wasn't sure he was taking in air anymore. "He's not really here?"

"Sam. Sam! Shit." Dean fumbled with the buttons of the remote before swearing and yanking the plug out of the wall. Then in two strides, he stood before Sam.

It felt strange to be touched, to be pulled down onto the couch and have Dean push his head between his knees. Sam went, because he couldn't seem to control his breathing, or his standing, or anything else. Instead all he could do was breathe, badly, because every sharp, unsatisfying breath blew out again with the words "He's not...he's not...he's not..." That was all Sam had in his head, all he had to offer.

"Sammy, you can see—"

"No, I can't see." Sam said. He covered his eyes. "His voice is in my head. And I can't...you need to…."

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, even though that was clearly a lie by how his voice cracked. "Nothing happened to me. He's...that fucker's not here."

Sam shuddered with fear, hearing Dean talk about the Director like that, wondering if the man would know, how he would take it out on them.

He tried to stop it, tried to control the rush of pure fear making him shake. He knew he wasn't doing a good job at all. "Where...did that...come from?"

"I don't know," Dean said. His voice was shaking too. "I don't...they came in the mail."

"The mail," Sam repeated. "They. There's...there's more than…" He had to tip forward again, try to breathe, try to do anything other than run screaming, drag Dean back to the Impala, and drive where the Director could never find them. "How m-many?"

"I didn't count. Come on, let's get up, let's...let's go lie down."

"I d-dropped the beer," Sam said.

"I don't care. Hey, can you stand up? Stay with me, come on."

Dean helped him to their bedroom, locking the front door as they passed it, and completely ignoring the bottles of beer that he had left scattered (but hadn't broken, some distant part of Sam was thankful) on the doorstep. Dean got him to their bed, and then got in after him, holding him so tight that Sam thought that maybe Dean's arms would hold him together.

Sam held on and trembled as old memories flashed through him like an electric shock.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said over and over. "You're here with me. I won't let him… he's not here, I swear it."

It took a damn long time for Sam to stop shaking, for Dean's warmth to help him feel less like he was going to shake out of his skin. But even then, he neither slept nor made any move to get up, just stayed in their bed, staring at the wall, exhausted and terrified and frozen down to his bones by That Voice, and the thought that the Director could be there, his knife cutting into Dean.

Very late, when he probably thought Sam was asleep, Dean got out of the bed and closed the bedroom door softly behind him. Sam felt him go, but couldn't get up, couldn't cry out. Don't, he thought. Don't get his voice in your head.

When the flicker of light under the doorway told him that Dean had turned on the TV, Sam curled up in the bed, pressed a pillow over his head, and tried to hold himself together.


Sam may have been the one who had the panic attack, but as Dean held him in their bed, he also felt wrecked, shaky. Even the thirty, maybe forty minutes he had watched on that first tape had been... devastating. And it was only one of an entire fucking box.

He'd known, okay, or thought he'd known. After years of loving Sam, of growing with Sam, of alternately sidestepping, adapting, or barreling straight through the things that had left him shaking, Dean thought he had a pretty good picture of what Sam had experienced, what left him afraid and withdrawn at times. Dean had thought he knew how much he should hate everyone who had ever touched Sam. He had thought he knew how strong Sam was.

He'd been so fucking wrong.

After Sam fell asleep, Dean couldn't stop himself. He told himself that he was just going to get up and grab the milk and beer from the doorstep, make sure he hadn't broken the TV when he pulled the plug out in a panic, but he knew he was lying to himself.

Once the food was put away, he ended up back in front of the TV. He plugged it back in, and the screen came up blue and waiting. Dean stood there for a long minute. Then, careful to set the volume just above mute, he pushed play on the VCR with a finger that trembled.

Dean didn't look away, except for the minutes he lost emptying his guts in the bathroom. Each time he thought he could get the video out of his head, the look of terror and agony on that younger Sam's face always rose up and hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. Like a… like a motherfucking cattle prod. Those fucking sons of bitches.

Dean nearly drove his knuckles into the wall, but stopped himself just in time, remembering Sam asleep in their room, remembering that it was all in the past. Even if it was a past that they lived with every day, and where every one of the sadistic motherfuckers responsible walked free.

Eventually, he took the bathroom's garbage can with him to the living room, so he wouldn't risk Sam coming out to the video playing while Dean was bending over the toilet.


Hours later, halfway through the second tape, a noise in the hallway snapped Dean out of the transfixed, living nightmare he'd sunk into. When Sam appeared at the edge of the living room, Dean hastily slapped at the remote, first accidentally unmuting it, and then managing to hit mute, then pause. Shock and the horror of what he had been watching made his hands numb and uncoordinated on the buttons.

Sam neither said a word nor acknowledged anything, looking only at the table with the tapes spread across it. He picked one up and looked at the label for a long minute. Dean watched him, knowing he ought to say something, but he had no words left inside him, nothing but a ragged scream set to escape the moment he opened his mouth.

In one quick movement, Sam raised the tape up and brought it down, smashing it hard onto his knee. The plastic case broke, chunks of it and the tape ribbon falling to the carpet while Sam ripped at the ribbon left in his hands, stomping on the pieces with his bare heel. That got Dean scrambling to his feet, just as Sam reached for another tape.

"Sammy— "

"Who sent these?" Sam cracked the tape against the table edge, then let it fall and reached for the box and wrappings, yanking them to him as he searched for a return address. "Who? Who did this to us, Dean?"

"I don't—there's no names, except on the tapes—Sammy, stop, wait." Dean snatched the next tape out of Sam's grasp. "I haven't seen that one —"

"They're trying to destroy you!" Sam screamed, and Dean froze. Sam was staring him in the eye, his own eyes wild under his tangled bangs. "Don't you—can't you see—" Sam's voice was ragged, barely controlled. He gestured at the tapes and packaging between them with a shaking hand. "Whoever did this—they're trying to wreck us. You don't need to see these. They want to ruin us, Dean."

Dean had no answer. Exhaustion, rage and pain had fogged his mind. Now that Sam had said it, he saw how true it was: the mystery of the tapes, moments designed to rip Sam, or maybe Dean, apart. But that didn't change his desperate need to keep watching, to see everything, like a bloody wound that needed to be stitched shut. Sam had protected him from all of this, and now, confronted by the truth in cheap video, Dean had to watch to the end.

The truth will set you free. Who had said that to him? Probably Pastor Jim.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said. "I don't know who sent them, I don't know why. But I have to… I can't…" Then Dean looked down at the tape he had wrested from Sam's hands, seeking some kind of answer, and saw the name Bobby Singer on the label.


Bobby, still mostly asleep and wrapped in the cotton blur of dreams, fumbled for the cellphone buzzing on the end table by his bed. If some asshole was drunk dialing him at 2 a.m., he was going to trace the damn number and put it on a Taiwanese Bible hotline. "Yeah?"

"God damn it, Singer."

He knew that voice, roughened with rage and pain. But it wasn't quite... "John?"

"You knew. You fucking knew and you just left him there, you heartless son of a bitch."

That wasn't John Winchester. Bobby couldn't remember the last time John had cared that much about something. "Dean?"

"Dean, give me the phone." Sam's voice was loud, authoritative, and near enough to the receiver that Bobby knew he had to be right next to Dean. "No, I said give me the phone." There was the sound of a scuffle, a "Dammit, Sam!" from Dean, and then Sam's breathing was in Bobby's ear.

Whatever this was, Bobby didn't like it at all. Part of him was relieved that at least both the boys were in good enough shape to be calling and fighting over the phone, but the rest of him braced for whatever had gone down, that had prompted that from Dean.

"Sorry about that," Sam said, tone flat with a mechanical edge that Bobby hadn't heard in a long time. "Someone s-sent us re-recordings of my interrogations in the camp. Dean watched one before I knew, and I… I tried to stop him from watching the rest, but... Well, he's upset. I'm s-sure it's just… sure he'll come around."

"Damn right we're coming around." Dean must have been shouting to come through that loud and clear. "We're gonna come 'round Sioux Falls, and I'm gonna sock him in the jaw."

"Dean!" Sam snapped, and then the phone clicked off.

Bobby stared down at the phone and didn't even have the strength to swear.

All of Bobby's years in the hunting business told him that the question of who the fuck sent those recordings was paramount, but his gut also told him it was going to have to wait. Dean had just seen the interrogations. And probably seen all kinds of fucked-up shit that Bobby couldn't even imagine.

Bobby knew what that could do to someone, knew what it would do to Dean, and had never once considered explicitly telling Dean what had happened to Sam. He had assumed that living with Sam, helping him cope, would be all the illumination Dean could need. Winchesters in particular never needed any extra fuel for their deep-burning rages. Bobby understood why Dean would be pissed, understood the rage, but why call—

Balls. Dean must have seen the interrogation Bobby had walked in on, all those years ago.

Knowing sleep was out of the question now with the live wire of adrenaline in his blood, Bobby kicked off the covers and went to the kitchen.

He had tried not to think of that interrogation over the years, though it returned to mind fairly often regardless. That meant he could clearly recall—in sharper detail than he ever wanted—the scene Dean must have witnessed. The corner camera in that damn hellhole would have seen everything. All Bobby had failed to do.

No good for anyone to say now that he couldn't have done anything else.

Waiting for the boys to arrive was hell. Bobby abandoned the thought of breakfast and instead tidied his office and kitchen, mechanically storing the booze in a locker, ignoring the shaking of his hands.

A couple hours later, Bobby was fading even as the light of dawn grew stronger. He was just contemplating going back to his bed for whatever restless sleep he could get when his phone rang again.

"Singer."

"Hi, Bobby." Sam's voice was more normal, but still too even and controlled for the shitfest that Bobby knew had to be raging in his head (in both their heads). "We're on our way to you now. Still about eight, maybe ten hours depending on how many times we stop."

"We've not stopping!" Dean's voice was fainter, but clear. "We're getting there in eight if I have to break every fucking law to do it."

Sam sighed. "Dean is probably still going to want to punch you in the face when we get there."

"I'd deserve it, kid," Bobby said.

"It's not your fault," Sam said quietly. "It's not the fault of anyone in this conversation."

"Like hell it's not his fault! He—"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said tersely. "We'll see you soon, Bobby." And then he hung up for the second time that morning.

The Impala pulled into the yard eight and a half hours later. Bobby waited on his porch, not entirely sure what would come out at him, but pretty certain he deserved whatever it might be.

It took longer than usual for Sam and Dean to get out with that smooth synchronicity that came from more than just practice. Dean's movements were tight and angry, while Sam carried his tension smooth and controlled like a piano wire ready to be struck.

Dean charged up the stairs and Bobby expected his fist, but instead Dean shoved something else into his chest, pushing him back a step. It was a worn VHS.

"We're gonna watch this," Dean snarled. "And then you're going to fucking explain yourself." His hair stuck up from his head as though he had been pulling at it, and his eyes were bloodshot, shadowed with exhaustion.

Bobby held the tape away from him, like it might bite. "Okay." He looked up to where Sam sat on the trunk lid of the Impala, looking over the junked cars like they might have answers to a question he hadn't even figured out how to ask. "You coming in, Sam?"

"Not while you watch that," Sam said.

The interrogation was almost worse this time, even with the added distance of grainy surveillance footage and some five years. Maybe because he knew what was coming.

The video didn't show Sam looking at him, which still burned in Bobby's nightmares: ones where he hadn't made the call on time. Ones where he watched Sam die in that camp and had to tell Dean. Instead, he had Dean's eyes watching him with more contempt and hatred than Bobby had ever seen on his face before.

When the camera showed Bobby walking out of the room, leaving Sam alone with the men torturing him, Dean hit the pause button.

"That's why I called you." Bobby's voice sounded weak and thin even to himself. "I couldn't… I couldn't…"

"You watched and you walked out." Dean's voice shook. Bobby couldn't look him in the eye, but he felt certain that if he did, he'd see tears there. "What the fuck, Singer? You don't know how much I just want to… fuck, knock the shit out of you, even though that does no damn good for Sam."

"You're right. But go ahead." Bobby wanted it, a clean moment of pain and recrimination.

It was harder to think that when Dean's fist crashed into his face, knocking him a few paces back. Bobby caught himself before he went down, absorbing the blow in his bones.

Dean stalked out of the room.

Bobby had lowered himself into his chair and was gingerly feeling his aching jaw when Sam came into the room. His expression unnervingly neutral (though not blank like in those videos, thank Christ), he took one look at Bobby and headed for the kitchen. When he reappeared, he was holding an ice pack.

Bobby had not realized he could feel worse. "Kid, I can't take that from you."

Sam looked at him for a moment, then made a helpless gesture. "I'm here now. And you've always been nothing but good to me, Bobby, even when you thought I was a grade-A freak. So don't let that bruise get even worse than it is because you think you owe me your suffering."

Bobby felt the pain in his chest from watching that tape burst, like a lanced cyst. There was still a hell of a lot of gunk and disgusting crap there, but with work he might be able to scrape it away, and maybe get to some kind of wound that could heal clean. He took the ice pack, lifting it to his jaw.

"Besides," Sam went on, "There was nothing you could do, and I'm out now. It's done. And Dean will forgive you too, it just...might take some time for that rage to burn out."

"I get it," Bobby said. In Dean's place, he didn't know that he would have stopped at one punch. And if he were in Sam's…

Fuck. How could he have ever looked at this kid and thought he was a monster?

"I don't," Sam said. "And I'm afraid to try."


Later that afternoon, when Dean settled down to watch the rest of the tapes, Sam took the Impala and left the salvage yard behind him. He headed into town to find the library and bury himself in the dustiest, most unused corner. Sam didn't much like to think about why, but the truth was he couldn't bear to be around Dean for another minute.

The drive to Sioux Falls had been hell. Totally silent, other than the calls to Bobby to give him as much warning as possible. No radio, and Sam couldn't think of focusing on a book in the face of their world ending, as it clearly was. They'd had a good run of six years, far more time than Sam had thought possible in the beginning. He'd started to believe they could double or even quadruple that before Sam's origin came back to bite them.

Sam had spent most of the tense, gut-clenching drive trying to think of who had sent the tapes. It was the kind of malicious joke that any of the guards would've thought a laugh, but why had it taken so long, if that was all it was? Which of them would've gone to the trouble of packing it up for the mail instead of throwing it through the damn window? And that didn't even touch on all those goddamn labels, so neatly printed.

There was only one sensible answer, and it caught the breath in Sam's chest. But even for the Director, these damn tapes were strangely indirect. Wouldn't he just send a team to collect Sam? Why torment Dean?

Because Dean had displeased him. That had to be it. Henry Miller had sent him a report after their run-in, probably because he'd seen them kissing outside the bar. Of course. The Director always knew and would never fail to punish a monster that was trying to pretend to be more.

Sam sat down between the library aisles, put his head between his knees and forced himself to breathe slowly.

At least they'd made it to Bobby's. Dean had delivered the promised blow, so surely his rage would start to ebb. Bobby could help him. And maybe when Sam got back (he'd stay away until the library closed, then find something to eat in the town), Dean wouldn't be brimming with barely contained violence, the kind that telegraphed to every nerve in Sam's body the certainty of a great deal of pain if he stayed in range.

He knew, intellectually, that Dean would never hurt him. That he'd break his own fist on a wall first. That knowledge didn't help the gut-deep terror he felt seeing Dean that angry. He'd felt a panic attack no more than a few breaths away all day.

Worse still was the knowledge from last night that Dean wasn't listening to anything right now, that Sam had no way of reaching him. Unless Bobby could break through and shake some sense into him, Sam knew nothing but ashes lay ahead. There was no going back to what they'd had even forty-eight hours ago.

It all sounded melodramatic as hell, but it was true. He'd known it from the moment he heard the Director's voice inside his apartment, and the way Dean had looked at him like a stranger when Sam had pleaded with him to stop watching.

Everything was falling apart, but that was why the tapes had been sent, after all. The Director knew what he was doing, how to break a person or a freak into their component parts with precision and efficiency. Sam just hoped that this time when the breaking was done there would still be enough of him and Dean left to put something together again.

He just wasn't sure they would get that lucky twice.


For the next couple of days, Bobby felt more like he had a couple of ghosts in his house than the boys. Dean watched the goddamn tapes, usually with an unopened beer in his hand, as though he needed the comfort, but even that much alcohol dulling the horror would be more than he deserved. Bobby watched with him sometimes, until the nausea and crawling of his stomach forced him out of the room. Other times he listened from just outside the room. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse to just hear what was being done to Sam.

He would have felt guilty about not listening, not being a witness to that horror, and then he remembered that the person who really had the most say didn't want anything to do with it.

Sam stayed out of the house entirely.

When he had gone through them all, Dean brought the tapes out to the burn barrel in the heart of the junkyard. While Bobby watched, warily, Dean salted them before pouring the kerosene over the heap and lighting the match. He stood back and watched the flames until every scrap of tape had been reduced to a fine, hot ash and the plastic bubbled.

"I can grab a garbage can for that," Bobby said when Dean had stared down at the ashes until they were barely smoldering.

"Nah." Dean kicked the barrel over, scattering the coals over the packed dirt, then seemed to reconsider. "Where do you usually dump your dog shit?"

Bobby nodded toward the back end of the salvage yard. Dean scraped up the ashes and walked heavily in that direction with the air of a man going to bury a body he was sure would be found by the wrong people. Bobby turned back toward the house.

Dean was calmer after that (still simmering with low-level fury, but less crazy in the eyes), and he actually managed to eat some real food and keep it down. That night after Sam had returned from his daily library retreat, the three of them sat on Bobby's porch and drank. At least, Dean and Bobby drank—Dean was working his way through his second six-pack of cheap cans, and Bobby was on his third bottle (and grateful he had tucked the harder stuff out of sight). Sam kept a beer in one hand as a show of solidarity, and the other hand on Dean's knee. Even from across the porch, Bobby could see the tension that Dean still carried, moving into Sam like a slow current.

Drinking on a quiet porch shouldn't have felt like waiting for a goddamn firestorm. It was almost a relief when Dean slammed his empty can onto the side of his chair, half crushing it in the process. "Goddammit, Bobby, don't you have anything stronger?"

"You don't need to get wasted right now, kid." Bobby took a sip of beer to wet his lips and push down the dryness in his mouth. "Flying off the handle isn't going to help anyone."

"I'm not flying off the handle. I've got it fucking handled, thanks." Dean popped open another beer and drained half of it before he had to come up for air. "What are we doing? We have to fucking do something."

Bobby saw Sam twitch a little, and then his mouth tighten.

"We don't have to do anything." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper, as though he did not have much hope Dean would listen. "We can't do anything. You have to let this go, Dean." It was more words than Bobby had heard from him since their conversation over his bruised jaw.

"Let it go!" Dean shouted. He pushed himself to his feet and turned on Sam, arms wide. "I can't fucking let it go!"

"Sit down, idjit," Bobby snapped, but his words had none of the usual power. The tapes had drained him too. Some part of him wanted to speed to the camp and take a baseball bat to anyone who had hurt Sam. That would be a supremely stupid decision, but if he wanted to do it, he couldn't blame Dean for wanting the same thing, if not more.

Sam stood up too. Bobby could see him pushing past the numbness to find some anger. "Too f-fucking bad," he said. "That's the only option."

"Sammy." Dean's voice dropped lower, almost pleading. "This isn't just about you, though it's that too. It's...look, we're hunters, right? Which means we hunt monsters. We kill things that hurt innocents. How can I look away from the worst damn monsters I've ever fucking found just because they hurt the person I love and not a fucking stranger? Bobby, back me up here."

Now both boys were looking at him, Dean defiant, Sam desperately hopeful, like he expected Bobby to be the voice of reason. Bobby didn't think that he had it in him.

He chugged the last of his beer. "I get it," he said, ignoring Sam's wounded look. "But what the hell do you think you're going to do, Dean? Start taking potshots at guards on the weekends? Start slitting throats in ASC? Freak Camp will still be there, and they'll always find other sadistic bastards to take their place."

"But not these," Dean said. "Not the fucks who hurt Sam."

Sam reached for Dean, and Dean let Sam take his hand. He leaned into him like Sam was the only pillar in his world. And it was probably true. Damn idjits.

"Hell, Dean," Bobby said. "Just… hell. I know what you mean, but what can we do about it? It's not like you can firebomb the place."

Dean pulled back from Sam and stared. For a second, Bobby thought he was going to get another punch in the face. Then Dean's face broke into a manic smile. The rage slipped out of him through the curve of his lips, the baring of his teeth, and there was some unholy joy in his expression. He took a step forward.

"Bobby," he said. "That is an excellent idea."

Bobby stared. He slowly put his beer down, because he was pretty damned sure that his hand was shaking. "That was sarcasm, idjit."

The smile remained on Dean's face. "That doesn't mean it's not an excellent idea."

"No, no it's not. It's a terrible idea." Bobby had heard worse ideas in his time—a couple of them from another Winchester he could name—but those had been when the idiot in question had been too drunk to stand, maudlin, unlikely to remember his resolve in the morning. Dean was drunk, but not that drunk. The eyes that stared back at him were wild, but lucid.

"Dean," Sam choked out, and had to clear his throat. He sat heavily and tried to speak again, but took a swallow of his beer instead. It was maybe his third sip all weekend. Bobby saw his throat work. "Dean, listen to Bobby. That's a really bad idea."

Dean reached over and cupped Sam's cheek in his hand, turned Sam's face to his. "And why shouldn't I just listen to you?" he asked softly. "Why should I have to listen to Bobby and not to you, Sam? Why aren't you as ready to kill those sons of bitches as I am?"

"No." Sam pulled away, hauling himself to his feet. "You are not using me as an excuse for a suicide mission. I'm not going to let you." Dean opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off with increasing heat and a sharp cut of his hand. "What do you want, Dean? You want me to get angry because of what happened to me six years ago? Here's what I'm not going to do: I'm not throwing my life, and yours, away because of something that is over."

Dean took him by the arm. Sam stopped, but Bobby could see the tension in his shoulders. Paired with another expression, the kid could have been bracing himself for a blow, but with the scowl on Sam's face, he looked ready to give one.

"They hurt you," Dean said. "It kills me that they hurt you, and yeah, maybe I should get the fuck over myself, but it eats at me, Sam. But that's not the worst. I could fucking move on if it really was over, if we could just walk away and never give a flying fuck about any of those assholes again. But you know what, we can't, because they're still doing it. Look at that Miller asshole. Look at what they got away with last year, straight-up murdering kids. Shit floats, and they could still hurt you any day, and I can't just sit by, knowing that the bastards who did all that fucked-up shit to you because it was fucking fun or let them get their rocks off—those fucks are still out there."

"Do you really think shooting them in the head is going to make that stop?" Sam snarled. "Like it will make everything better? It won't. You'd have to...you'd have to murder the whole damn ASC to put everyone in the ground who is a threat to me, and that won't solve anything. What happened to me is exactly the same as it was a week ago. The only difference now is that you've seen the gritty details. Going on some misguided vendetta won't stop me from being triggered in a fucking grocery store if it's a bad day, won't stop some people from seeing a f-freak when they look at me and want to put me down. You've already saved me in every damn way you can, and now all you have left to do is deal with it." Sam pushed Dean in the chest with an open hand, hard enough to make him step back. "Don't throw your life away over me."


Probably it was the alcohol. It made Dean feel better to blame the alcohol for the way anger, confusion, and frustration boiled through and came out without a fucking filter. When Sam talked about throwing your life away, there was only one thing gone that Dean had ever cared about. And he had stopped hoping years ago to get his dad back and have Sam in his life too. It had ripped Dean apart, but he knew he couldn't build anything with Sam with his father's old rage and obsession getting in the way.

But none of that was what came out of his mouth.

"I've already given up every fucking thing that mattered, for you," Dean snapped. "My 'life' is already fucking gone."

Sam's expression went blank, in the way it had in too many of those damned tapes—the fucking tapes where Sam didn't cry, didn't even struggle, because Dean could see hopelessness and resignation, acceptance, the not-even-despair in every line of his body.


Sam had difficulty drawing breath to speak. "I didn't think you'd… You never seemed to..." He swallowed. It hurt going down, like that last sip of beer had burned his throat raw. He gathered his strength, pulling up anger with it because he didn't have much else left. The idea, the confirmation, that even some part of Dean regretted them dragged up old, groveling, panicky instincts that threatened to send him to the floor to beg.

He gritted his teeth and rubbed at his forehead, trying to ground himself. "This is a fucking bad moment to admit that you care about being seen as a freakfucker." Sam downed the rest of the beer in his hand in one hard chug and threw the bottle hard into the garbage can, where it shattered. He felt close to breaking in a similar way.

Bobby picked up the remains of the six-pack in front of Dean and moved it out of his reach. "I think you've had enough."

Dean looked at him, panic in his eyes, and Sam almost felt pleasure at that and seeing the disapproval writ large over Bobby's face. "Goddamnitfuckinghell, Sammy," he said, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "It's not fucking that. I didn't mean it that way."

"No," Sam said, straightening. He held himself carefully, as though injured and not sure that the tourniquet would stop the blood loss in time. "No, I think you meant exactly what you said. You're drunk and you're angry, but when you're fucking drunk and fucking angry, that's when you say things that you mean. That you really mean." Sam laughed, and it had no humor. He couldn't look at Dean, and his hands were rubbing his arms of their own accord, but he wasn't cold. "They don't always come out the way you want them to, but they're fucking true, Dean."

"Sammy…"

"No, Dean," Sam snapped. "I want you to say it again. It's fine, it's fucking fine, it makes sense, but I don't want you to lie to me anymore when you tell me it doesn't matter that you… I can't have you back down now and then keep lying to me later because that means… Fuck. Just fuck, Dean." The part of him that wasn't numb or curling up on itself in pain hated that this was going down in front of Bobby. It had been a hard-fought victory for himself over the years to feel like he could look Bobby in the eye when acknowledging his relationship with Dean as something okay, healthy. To believe, in front of this man who had been nothing but good to him, that being with Dean was nothing he should conceal or cringe over—that he didn't need to beg forgiveness for how thoroughly he'd tainted Dean. Now he felt ready to throw up.

But he focused on Dean and the raw, ugly truth flung between them. "It doesn't change anything." Sam didn't know where the words came from, but he knew they were true. "You can say you have r-r-regrets, and it doesn't change a damn thing between us. I'll still love you and f-fuck you and hunt with you. That won't change. You have not one fucking thing to be afraid of. But you will tell me the truth, right now, you will fucking say it or… or I'm gone. Because you can have regrets, Dean, but if you lie to me right now, I'll know that you regret more than… more than what you've lost. It'll be us you regret. And I can't wake up one day and have you look at me and know you see… what they all think I am." What I am, part of him whispered.

"I didn't mean it that way, Sammy." Dean looked frantic, shaken, and Sam wanted to believe him, but he couldn't yet. Dean had encouraged him for years to stand his ground, to speak for himself. He wasn't going to fucking crumble when the stakes were so high.

"So how did you mean it?" Sam's voice was still shaky, angry. "What is it exactly that you gave up for me?"


Distantly, in the part of his brain that wasn't cursing his stupidity, Dean was fucking proud that Sammy was strong enough to shove him to a metaphorical wall and threaten to leave his ass behind. Most of him was even glad that Bobby looked ready to shove him against a physical wall for the stupidity of blaming Sam in any way for how his life had gone.

The rest of him hurt.

Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He couldn't look at Sam or Bobby if he wanted to get the words out. "I miss Dad," he said. "Not every day, but sometimes I miss him so much it hurts. And I wouldn't," he had to open his eyes then to look at Sam, because Sam had to believe this, he had to, "I wouldn't put you back in that fucking hellhole for even a minute if it meant that I could have him back. I wouldn't trade you for a second, Sam. But it hurts and some days I wish…" I wish John Winchester wasn't a crazy bastard willing to kill his own son. I wish that he could have been different, that I could have been someone who could make him proud. "He was my life and he's gone, and I'd be lying if I said I was dancing two-steps about that, but I know there's no way that I could have you both in my life."

Sam swallowed visibly. "Is that it, Dean? Is that seriously it? You can't lie to me about this."

"That's...that's what I meant, but there's more." Dean paused, his gaze moving over the front of Bobby's house. It had stood just like that in his earliest memories. "You know… well, maybe you not as much, Sam, but Bobby... you know how I grew up. Always on the road because Dad—my father couldn't let go of Mom, didn't ever really believe her death was what we were told it was."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed quietly. "That's John."

"He lived for revenge, for figuring out what happened to her, making them pay, and he never could do it because the werewolves or whatever that killed her are dead, or gone, or didn't leave a fucking trace. I never got it, you know? I thought my dad was this fucking awesome hunter and man, and as I got older, with you, Sam, I realize that there's gotta be more to life than revenge. There should be more than the family business, even if it's everything, because I have you, and Bobby and… fuck, the Impala and burgers. But I can feel it, Sam. Watching what they did to you, I understand him better than I ever fucking did. I can feel that obsession I saw in him like a fucking chestbuster. I don't want it. I don't want it, but I don't know how to fucking stop it from eating me alive like it did my dad.

"The only thing I've got," he continued, feeling light-headed, but relieved at having admitted to the rage, "is the idea that I can head it off. Strike at the heart of that fucking camp and reduce it to ashes before I start jumping at every damn shadow, thinking it's another one of the bastards that made you bleed. That's what I want to do, Sam. I want to burn down this obsession before it poisons me. Or before it poisons us."

The silence after Dean's words stretched a very long time. Sam and Bobby alike stared at him, and Dean could feel his skin crawl, his heart kick up into high gear in a fight-or-flight response.

Then Sam blew out his breath and nodded. "That...that almost makes sense."

"What?" Now Bobby stared at Sam instead, incredulous. "You can't be serious. That's… yeah, I get that, John was an obsessed bastard… is, probably… But going after FREACS is a stupid death wish of an idea with a shit-all chance of success."

"Yes, it is," Sam agreed, and looked Dean hard in the eye. "If we did this, you could let it go? You really think you could walk away afterward?"

The adrenaline burning in Dean's blood took on a different feel, a changed intensity. Fight-or-flight was definitely riding toward fight. "Yeah," he choked out. "I'm not saying I wouldn't put a bullet in another one of those bastards' heads if I saw them in the wild. But if we went in, hit them where it hurts… yeah, that would be the end of the hunt. Even if the bones weren't salted."

"Sam," Bobby said. "You can't—"

"Okay," Sam said. "We're not going off half-cocked to burn it down, because that kind of stupidity just does their work for them, but… yes, okay. If we can come up with a plan that Bobby agrees isn't just a fiery suicide mission, something that both of us can come out of alive—we'll do it. Because I want this finished."

Dean felt a grin burst across his face, a satisfaction that would have been frightening in any other situation. "Hell, yeah," he said. "Let's burn it down."

Of course it wasn't that simple. Bobby, Dean, and Sam talked for a few hours about everything they knew about the camp and its security features (which was a conversation that Dean had very little input in, and that Sam had to leave the room for twice). Bobby logged Sam into his ASC intranet to see what he could find, and Dean went to help Bobby dig up everything they knew about the layout, the structural design, and the current guard roster from his records.

"It's all going to be out of date," Bobby said as they hauled boxes.

"Yeah, they've gotten more tight-lipped about their plans than they used to be," Dean said.

"That too," Bobby agreed. "But I also haven't been to FREACS in years."

Dean was clearly about to ask why, and then realization came over his face. They were silent over the boxes for a long minute, before Dean gave a short nod of acknowledgment.

Back upstairs, they found Sam frowning over an old laptop of Bobby's. He looked up at them. "Dean, I finally looked at that flash drive she gave us, and it looks legit. There's some solid stuff here, including current blueprints. I think we have to call her."

Dean looked intrigued. "No shit, huh? Well, I guess it's now or never, all chips in."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at them. "And who are you calling?"

Sam looked away, and Dean shifted. Neither answered, and Bobby felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Finally, Dean answered with feigned casualness, "We might've had a run-in with Alice Campbell a few months back."

"You what?"

Sam winced.

"She sprang at us outta nowhere in Montana." Dean scoffed. "Gave us this sob story about seeing the error of the ASC's ways, wanted us to team up like some knock-off Justice League to bring down Lex Luthor and all his pals. 'Course we trusted it as far as you'd ever trust the mouthpiece of the ASC."

Bobby dropped his box onto the table with a thump. "And you melon-heads didn't think to ever tell me?"

"We're telling you now," Dean snapped.

Sam said quietly, "We didn't even look at what she gave us until just now. I didn't want to put it in our laptop, that's why I used your junker. But take a look."

The flash drive had current blueprints, death records, and dirt on ASC officials that Bobby never dreamed of having access to. It made his eyes cross, and for the first time made him think that they had a chance, if this Campbell came through for them.

Dean's eyes started to glaze over the fine-print forms and blueprints a couple hours in, and Sam bullied him into bed. "You serious now about listening to me? Try getting more than four hours of sleep for once in the past four days."

Bobby and Sam kept working for a bit afterward, but Bobby's heart wasn't in it, and Sam clearly had something on his mind. Dean would push and push hard for a plan, any plan with even a hint of success, but on that night of fraught emotions and pain, Bobby didn't have it in him to try to make the pages and numbers and possibilities fall into any kind of order.

Finally he sat back. "I'm going to throw something in the crock pot for when he wakes up, or when we get hungry, whichever comes first. You want to come with?"

"No, not yet," Sam said. "I'm going to go through this one more time. Thank you, though. I'll put these back in order when I'm done."

Bobby figured that the idjit would work until his eyes fell out, and went to get a roast and potatoes cooking. After the food was in and the dishes were done, he couldn't go back to that little room with a thousand boxes, none of which had the answer that Dean wanted.

And, any other day, he could have thoroughly roasted Sam for making him the arbitrator of what was sane in this fucked-up situation.

He was surprised when he stepped out onto the porch to find Sam sitting on the steps, rolling a beer bottle between his hands.

Bobby leaned against a pole across from him, not feeling the need to speak. Plenty had been said that day, plenty for them all to think on, without adding to it.

But perhaps that silence on his part was what led Sam to clear his throat. "Bobby—" He paused, doubt clear on his face even in the limited light that filtered from the house to the porch.

"Yeah?" When Sam said nothing for a long minute, Bobby sighed. "Just spit it out. We've bulldozed through enough shit today, might be better to flatten out the whole thing now."

Sam dipped his head in acknowledgment, but his voice was still halting. "I was just—just wondering. Why it was, when Dean said—said that he wanted—to get me. Get me out, I mean. Why did you let… that is, I mean, it would've made sense if you'd told him it was a—a bad idea."

Bobby took a minute to absorb that hit, grateful for the sturdy wood wall at his back. When he was sure of his words, he said briskly, "Because—and this is what John should've known, the stupid bastard—if you were that important to Dean, well, I know his instincts are good. With something that big, I know they gotta be good."

"You didn't—" Sam faltered for a moment, then said low, "You didn't think I might've laid some mojo on him?"

Bobby snorted dismissively. "I'd seen you. And I knew by then what fuck-ups were running the whole asylum, and what kinda admission policies they had. Nah, I figured even if you had, we'd sort that out later. But I didn't think so, else I wouldn't have called him."

After a moment, Sam asked tentatively, "You called him?"

Bobby hesitated. "Guess it was the last time I was there. Knew you weren't gonna last much longer, so Dean had better act quick if he really meant to get you out. And 'course he did."

Sam stared out across the yard as the silence stretched. Bobby's discomfort grew—balls, that was not something he'd meant to share, at least not like this—and he was searching for a joke to break the silence when Sam spoke.

"I hope I never give you a reason to regret it."

Bobby snorted, scuffing the peeling paint of his porch with his shoe. "Not likely, unless you stop making that sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving. Can't cut a guy off like that."

Sam huffed in amusement, but Bobby still felt the joke weigh too heavily between them—it didn't feel like that long ago before Sam wouldn't have recognized it as a joke.

"More seriously," Bobby said. "Dean makes stupid-ass decisions sometimes."

Sam nodded, face serious as a coffin in the low porch light. "Yeah."

"But, stupid as they are, those decisions are usually the right ones. I sure as hell don't want you boys getting killed, but I can't exactly say that he's wrong. Neither of you has ever given me a reason to doubt you on the big stuff, and I don't see that changing."

The quiet felt better now, more thoughtful, less broody. Maybe that was the last damn revelation for the night.

"Thank you, Bobby," Sam said. "Thank you for everything."

"My pleasure, kid. Now you just think of a way to blow up that damn camp that isn't going to carry either of you idjits with it."


Alice kept the burner phone with her all the time. Not because she lived in hope, but because she had had at least one nightmare where the call finally came in and cousin Jonah was the one who answered it. That said, she almost fell off her chair when the chorus from "Sugar We're Going Down" started blaring from her purse.

"I have to take this," she told her aide even as she fumbled for the phone. "It's a contact. Reschedule for half an hour."

Eyes wide, he nodded and booked it out of her office, closing the door behind him.

Alice waited until she heard the lock click, praying that whoever was calling wouldn't get bored before she was in the clear. This office was regularly checked for bugs, but the soundproofing was only good when the door was closed.

She finally snapped the flip phone open. "Hello?"

"Alice Campbell?"

She'd only given this number to two people, and she was still fucking surprised to hear Dean Winchester on the other end, sounding as testy and pissed as the last time they'd met. "Who else would it be? You check out that flash drive I gave you?" Maybe he, or Sam, had finally looked at what she had put together, and would be willing to work on a solution.

"Yeah. I got a proposition for you." His tone was aggressive and challenging. Alice's heart rate kicked into high gear, but she kept her voice steady.

"What would that be?"

"How would you like to burn Freak Camp down to the last brick?"

The shock that went through her tasted like adrenaline and triumph and panic, like a firefight she was sure she would win, or a press conference when she knew what the worst question would be and had her response perfected down to the last syllable. "That sounds… pretty damn good," she said. "What changed your mind?"

"I saw the tapes."

She couldn't stop laughter bubbling up, but she kept it to one sharp, brutal, exclamation. "The interrogations? If I'd known that was all it would take, I would have played them for you months ago."

"Did you send them?" Dean's voice was tight and infinitely more dangerous.

With the adrenaline burning in her veins, Alice didn't even bother to be afraid. "Everything I gave you was on that flash drive."

A long pause. "So. You in?"

"Absolutely," she said. "What do you need?"

"We need a plan where we make it out alive. And without getting thrown in the slammer."

Alice felt the grin growing on her face, and she knew it came through in her voice. "I think I can help with that."