It doesn't take Dean a lot of time to settle the Boeffel situation. In fact, he's pretty sure Pastor Jim only sent him after Bryan so he could have an excuse to get Dean and Sam away from each other. Usually, Dean would resent the hell out of that, but when Sam and Pastor Jim finally come back inside the building, his little brother seems to be feeling better, a little less About to Fly Off the Handle and a little more Keeping It Together for the Case, and that's not a fix, it's not anything more than delaying the inevitable blow up where they finally get all the shit that's building up between them – Mom, Dad, Sammy's goddamn demon powers, and how, no matter what the black-eyed crowd might have to say about it, his little brother very definitely is not evil or short a soul or one bitchfit away from ending the goddamn world - out in the open.

And Dean would love to deal with that shit, he really would. He's love to cram it through Sammy's too-big goddamn brain how he's not evil and Mom's never dealt with the goddamn devil and there's no way a nerdy poindexter like him is ever ending the fucking world, but they've got their only leads scared as hell and seconds from bolting, they've got Dad calling who-knows-how-many of the hunting horde down on them, and there's just not any goddamn time for any of it.

Thank god, Sam's talk with Jim seems to have helped. Not fixed what's weighing on Sammy the worst, not by a long shot, but whatever Jim said to the kid, it's got a Band-Aid over the bullet hole, at least for now.

Dean wouldn't have been able to do that. He's angry enough himself, about Dad, about the things these demons have done to his baby brother, about all of it. He's pissed, too, about the way Sam is sure, so damn sure, about all the wrong goddamn things. As far as Dean can see, he'd already decided Mom was guilty back at the cabin, and everything they discover now is just enforcing this fucked-up idea he's got in his head that he's evil and Mom sold him and- and...

It doesn't help that even Dean has to admit the evidence is piling up.

He shakes his head, dismissing the thought. It's not fair to blame Sam for believing it, not really, but Dean knows better. As much as he hates the way Dad said it, he wasn't wrong. Sam never knew Mom. Dean did. Dean knows what kind of person she was, and she wasn't someone who would make a deal with a demon. She would never have done anything to hurt Sam. Never.

Dean can't prove it, though, and he knows that's what Sam – smart, analytical, research-junkie Sam – needs.

They can get proof, though, proof that whatever Sarah Boeffel did was miles apart from however things went down back in Lawrence, proof that no matter how much spoonbending the kid can do, Sam is just as normal, just as human, as anyone else in the goddamn room, proof that no matter what it looks like right now, no matter how bad, how damning what they've got might be, what Dean knows is the truth.

Dean's mom? His brother? His family?

They're good. Real. And if Sam needs proof to believe it, then Dean'll find the goddamn proof, because no matter what crap Sammy has running through his head about Mom and Yellow Eyes and why he can do the things he can do, Dean remembers his mom.

He remembers how she whispered to Sammy when he was still just a bump under her dress, a mountain for Dean to climb when he was bored and Mom was too tired to play with him. He remembers how she'd smile over baby Sammy's crib, how she'd help Dean up so he could kiss his little brother goodnight.

He remembers how she'd hold him close after, both watching over Sammy asleep in his crib, and murmur that Dean was a big brother now, that Sammy was his to look out for, to protect.

So when Pastor Jim says: "Okay, boys. Let's figure this out together," all Dean thinks is "Perfect."

If Sam wants proof, Dean will find it. He'll prove that Mom is innocent, prove that they can beat this. Prove that Sam has a choice about being Yellow Eyes Junior or the frickin' Anti-Christ or whatever it is he's supposed to become.

One thing's for certain, though. They're not getting anything else out of Sarah Boeffel, at least not tonight, so Pastor Jim suggests putting their heads together and tying to flesh out what they've got so far with the help of his impressive stash of demon hunting texts.

"Thank you for this," Sam says, all dewy-eyed appreciation and drawn-in brow, while Jim helps Sam and Dean carry in the last few boxes of Dad's stolen research.

Dean appreciates Jim Murphy's silence on the whole 'research-nabbing' thing, especially since he's sure it came up in the conversation he had with Dad this morning. He wonders, privately, if John has told his friend about the gun that's still tucked into Dean's jacket pocket, too. Probably not. Dad's way too much of a paranoid bastard to mention something like that over the phone.

It must be genetic, because as much as Dean likes Pastor Jim, he sure as hell isn't jumping to bring up the Colt. He's pissed enough that Dad told other hunters – no matter who they are – about Sam, and he's silently thankful that the Boeffels were sent off with one of Dad's more rational buddies. As much as Dean and Sam had liked Caleb growing up, they sure as hell won't be going within a hundred miles of the arms dealer any time soon. The Roadhouse is off limits now, too. Ellen Harvelle seemed like a nice enough lady, sure, but she's not exactly in Dean's circle of trust, the hunters hanging around her bar even less so.

Then again, seeing as Dean's circle of trust pretty much just consists of him and Sam now, he guesses it's really more of a line.

Bobby might make the list, he thinks. After all, he was there for them in Covington and after the fire in Palo Alto. Tipped them off about Ellen and Bill Harvelle which ended up netting them the Colt. Things get bad enough, might be he could be counted on to come down on their side. Then again, that could just as easily be wishful thinking on Dean's part.

No, it's better to avoid hunters for now. Fuck, maybe forever. Even if Dad only told his handful of remaining allies what Sam is, word spreads fast in their circles. Sam'll spend the rest of his life having to look over his shoulder because of this, never knowing when some wanna-be white knight will decide to take a shot at him thinking he's one of the monsters.

It's enough to have Dean's skin crawling, to have him constantly checking his six for this asshole or the next, whatever moron is stupid enough to hear the word John's spreading like wildfire and decide to strike out for the greater fucking good. For someone to take a shot at offing Dean's little brother.

For someone to decide it's their day to die a goddamn hero.

Because there's no coming back from that. There's no way in hell Dean's gonna let anyone, any stupid son of a bitch who so much as looksat Sam cross-eyed, walk away. Either they don't think he's human or they don't care, and the day they cross Dean's path is the day they stop breathin'.

Dean knows what goes into making a decision like that. Knows what it takes to decide that the mission is more important than a human life, even one so- so- so damn good as Sam. He's looked that choice down the barrel and come down on his brother's side without a second thought. Because no matter what Sam can do, no matter what's in his past or in his blood, he is Dean's brother. He is Dean's brother, his Sammy, and that means he gets saved.

No matter what, he gets saved.

And anyone who thinks different better stay outta the way or make their peace with the fucking Lord.

He and Sam just need their answers. They need answers and then they need to get moving, somewhere, anywhere, that Dad's contacts and Yellow Eyes' fucking omens aren't and then they hang back. Let things get back to normal.

The sooner Sam and Dean can shut the book on this and get the hell back on the road, the better in Dean's book.

"You can set those down wherever," Pastor Jim tells them, nudging open the door to his bedroom with his hip.

The room is clean but sparse. There's a big, quilted bed in the center and a tall lamp standing beside a bedside table that's decorated with a stone cross, a bible, and a picture of a dark-haired little girl that Dean doesn't recognize. On the left-side wall, he has a threadbare recliner next to a tall bookshelf stocked with books of varying size and age that seem to all have the words "Church" or "Christ" in their titles.

Dean drops his box of papers on the carpeted floor in front of the bed's wooden footboard, and Sam follows his lead.

"You don't think the Boeffel's will get suspicious if we're still hanging around?" he asks quietly.

"Between you and Dad, we've got 'em pretty shaken up," Dean shrugs. "I'm guessing they won't question having some extra protection for the day. As long as we keep the demon talk in the bedroom."

He wiggles his eyebrows, but Sam just nods, crouches down, and starts shifting through the stacks of paper.

"Pastor Jim, do you mind if I use your walls?" he asks, unfolding a map and squinting at it curiously.

"That's fine, Sam," the man replies and fiddles around in the bedside table for a while before he produces a roll of tape. "Dean, you mind helping me bring up some books from downstairs?"

"No problem." Dean swallows down the paranoia, the knee-jerk refusal to leave his brother's side with a tight nod.

It'll be fine. This is Jim, the hunting world's answer to Mr. Rodgers. The guy could give Sam a run for his money on the dewy sensitivity front, and besides, if he was gonna make a move, he'd have made it already.

"Oh," Pastor Jim adds, "and if the Boeffel's are going to be here for the foreseeable future, we'll need to move some weapons around. If it were just me, I wouldn't worry about reaching the panic room in time—"

"But with two civilians and a baby, not so much," Dean finishes. "Looks like you're finally gonna have to axe that whole 'No Heat in the House of God' rule."

If the preacher is bothered by the semi-blasphemous way Dean chose to phrase that, he doesn't show it.

"So it would seem." Jim admits with a wry smirk. "I trust you won't be too disappointed, Dean?"

"Always said your sermons'd be better with some C-4 and salt rounds," Dean tosses back with an easy grin. "Sam, y'mind if we use these boxes?"

Sam hums absently, his eyes never leaving the map in front of him. Dean snatches up one of the empty boxes and empties another in a haphazard pile on the floor before Sam can realize what he just agreed to and heads for the door, Pastor Jim at his heels.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean calls back before he shuts the door. "Holler if you need anything, all right?"

"Coffee," Sam responds without looking up.

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls the bedroom door shut after him, striding past Brian Boeffel, who shoots them a bleary, bloodshot glare from where he's camped out at the battered kitchen table, picking at the cracked laminate and sullenly nursing a chipped mug of coffee.

"Need to get that guy a damn crossword," Dean mutters as he and Jim make their way through the deserted church.

"Quiet reflection does seem to leave him a might..." Jim trails off, apparently trying and failing to find a diplomatic way to say 'crotchety as fuck.'

"Asshole-ier?" Dean finishes with a smirk, which earns him a 'Not in a House of The Lord Young Man' glare from Pastor Jim.

"Tellin' you, a TV? Chance to catch the game, maybe some Springer? It'd go a long way toward takin' the stick outta that guy's ass," Dean insists as they walk together down the stone steps to the converted sepulcher. "Prisons have got better entertainment than your place, padre. At least there you can walk around the yard."

Jim huffs out a tiny laugh while he fits his key into one of the heavy padlocks.

"Calvary Lutheran Church: It's worse than prison," he quips. "Won't be putting that on the sign."

Dean chuckles.

"Hey, I call 'em like I see 'em."

"Dean, you've been trying to get me to buy a television set since you were eight years old," Jim says, swinging open one of the thick, wooden doors. "If I give in now, you win."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help those poor people," Dean grins, pressing a palm against his chest in mock-sincerity. "God created TV so we'd be happy, Pastor Jim. He would want us to enjoy it."

"When you pay for it, you can watch it," Pastor Jim responds by rote.

Dean laughs, following him into the room and setting his box down on the desk.

"That argument's not gonna work on me anymore, old man. I've got my own funds now."

Pastor Jim hums thoughtfully.

"It's your decision," he responds cheerfully. "If you choose to tempt fate by bringing what amounts to stolen goods into the house of the Lord, who am I to stop you? And after all, I'm sure Federal Marshalls trying to catch crazed murderers have nothing better to do than shop for TVs. I'm sure your bringing in one wouldn't raise any ire or suspicion at all, especially not from Mr. Boeffel, who has been nothing but compliant so far."

Dean opens his mouth to protest and then, remembering the sour, surly look on Bryan Boeffel's face as they left the parsonage, snaps it shut again. Pastor Jim smirks triumphantly.

He turns to survey the wall nearest to the door, which boasts a weapons collection that would make the MacManus brothers green with envy. He seems to think for a second, his hand hovering over one gun, then another, then the knives, before he gives up with a sigh.

"Let's just take everything," he suggests finally.

"You can never be too prepared," Dean agrees with a grin.

It'll take a couple of trips, but that'd still be faster than hem-ing and haw-ing over what to bring. Dean knows it's ridiculous and paranoid, but he just does not like leaving Sam alone like this. The longer his little brother's out of his sight, the tighter the uneasy knot in his stomach gets. The harder and harder it becomes to shake the fear of tearing back into that bedroom and finding Dad standing there, his gun trained on Sam like it was back at the Roadhouse, that same hard look glinting in his eyes that he'd had before he drove his fist into Dean's face.

"All right," he says with false cheer, sizing up the wall of fire arms and clapping his hands together. "Let's get to it."


Thanks for reading, guys! Just so you know, we'll be taking the next two weeks off of posting for Christmas and New Years! Check back on January 11th for the next chapter! (And aren't you glad we didn't leave it on a cliffy? Because we definitely could've!)