Bad language warning ahead.

Chapter 12

Exhausted didn't begin to cover it.

Dean convinced Marion that she had just passed out. She was wet because Sarah had been watering the plants and was startled when Marion fell. The plants were black because – well, they didn't know why, and that was a mystery, wasn't it? Dean and Sam were Joe and Steven; their mom had gone to college with Sarah and died in a car wreck when they were little boys. Dean was charming and solicitous, and followed Marion back to town to be sure she got there safely. He left her with a hug, after extracting a promise that she'd call her doctor.

When Dean arrived back at Sarah's, Sam had showered and changed and was stretched out on the couch. Dean paused to check on him, pressing a light hand to his forehead. Sam winced in his sleep but didn't wake.

"Bet you have a bitch of a headache, dude," Dean murmured.

He showered and changed into sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and when he came back into the living room, Sarah was sitting in the armchair with a pint of Jack Daniels and three glasses. She poured two fingers of whiskey and handed it to Dean before fixing one of her own.

Sam had thrown his arm over his eyes, still asleep. Dean took his drink and held up his glass, toasting. "Jammies by 6 p.m.," he said. "Shit."

"It feels much later," Sarah answered.

"That it does," Dean agreed. He sat in other armchair, and watched Sam, who hadn't changed position.

"So that's how you get rid of a demon?" Sarah asked finally.

Dean gave her a small smile. "That was kind of an anomaly. They usually don't come to us." He took a healthy sip. "And also, they usually don't actually die. They're exorcised back to Hell."

"What Sam did – is that because of the demon blood?"

Dean stared into his glass. "Yeah, I think so. I don't think he has a ton of control over it. He saw you were in danger and it just came out." He sighed. "There's a bigger issue, though. Did that demon come here by chance, or looking for us?"

"Looking for me, you mean," Sam corrected from behind his arm. "Of course it did."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to hear you say jammies." He eased himself to a sitting position, rubbing his temples. "Got any of that whiskey for me?"

"You should have Tylenol and Gatorade," Dean scolded, and Sarah hid a smirk behind her glass.

"Yup. I probably should." Sam agreed, and stretched out a long arm toward his aunt, who obliged.

"Sam, what you did out there – that's what I was talking about," Sarah said. "Channeling it for good. Maybe you can take down the demons that way."

"It only seems to work if someone is in mortal danger," Sam said dryly, taking a small sip of whiskey. "That doesn't seem like a viable plan."

"There must be someone who can help," Sarah mused. "Like, give you lessons, so to speak? Maybe Missouri?"

"Missouri doesn't move things," Dean pointed out.

"Okay, but she'd get it, right? Or be able to see what could work?"

"Maybe," Sam said hesitantly.

"How are you, Bobby, and Ellen going to track down hundreds of demons? If it's a war, you need to mount the offense. You need to – Oh my God." Sarah jumped to her feet and crossed to her alcove. She pushed aside wilting stems and brown paper and turned to them with a file box.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"My customers," she breathed. "I know hunters. Jesus, I didn't know I did, but I do. These people, the ones that Ellen recommended me to, they must be hunters, right?"

"Yes," Dean said slowly, "but …"

Sarah ignored him, talking over him. She balanced the box against her body and leafed through the folders. "There must be thirty or forty names here – about twenty are regulars. I don't imagine any of them know we're related – but I can contact them." She looked up, beaming with hope. "I have a network. You guys – I can get you help."

She missed the look of alarm her nephews exchanged, and Sam spoke gently. "No, Sarah, you can't. If people know we're related, that will make you a target. They'll go through you to get to us – to get to me."

"What? What are you talking about?" She was only half-listening. She sat on the hearth and started sorting the folders. "There's the bar, so that's Ellen, Bobby Singer, Asa Fox, Rufus Turner –"

"Sarah. Stop." When Sarah kept sorting and muttering, Dean said forcefully, "Auntie. Listen."

Sarah's head snapped up at the use of the old nickname.

"You can't tell anyone. They're after Sam, a lot of them. Because of the demon blood."

"What? Don't be ridiculous – why? Sam's the victim here."

"Did you ever ship a Gordon Walker?" Dean asked. "Do you have a folder for him?"

Sarah flipped to the end of the stack. "Yeah, right here. But I haven't heard from him in six months or so."

"That's because he's in jail," Dean said roughly. "He blew up an abandoned house to kill Sam, and we dropped a dime to the cops. And it's not just him. Sam's a target for a lot of them."

Sarah stared at him. "Because they think he's dangerous?"

Dean saw Sarah was completely serious, and he bit back a sarcastic reply. He took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. "They think he's going to turn evil."

Sarah shook her head. "That's not possible."

"Dad thought it was possible," Dean cut her off. "At least, he was worried about it …" His voice trailed off as he considered how much to share, and finally, almost recklessly, plunged. "He knew about the demon blood. He told me if I couldn't save Sam, I'd have to kill him."

As the horror of that settled in the room, something inside Sarah broke.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she hissed. "Never mind that deals with demons are a thing – now you think you're responsible to save the world from Sam? Who doesn't look like he'd hurt anything he didn't have to?'

Dean met her eyes, his gaze wary, but firm. "If it happened, he wouldn't be Sam anymore. But I still wish Dad hadn't told me. I wish I didn't know he might be right, because I know I can't do it."

"No," Sam said, his tone both weary and affectionate. "I'd have to do it myself."

"What. In the actual. FUCK." In that moment, Sarah sounded much more like a relative of John's than Mary's. "You are seriously discussing this like it's some kind of goddamned reasonable option."

"Reasonable? Reasonable burned up in a fire when I was four years old," Dean said, trying not to raise his voice. "You weren't there. You don't get to yell at me."

But it was exactly the wrong thing to say, because Sarah jumped to her feet, seething.

"You forget, Dean, that I was there," she snapped. "I was there before, during, and for a while after, before your father disappeared with you. And now?" She slammed down the folder she was still holding. "You two showed up here with no warning and made me remember how much I love you, and now you tell me that inside a year you might both be dead – No. NO. That is not happening. I get to yell at you all I fucking want."

Sarah had advanced on Dean and ended her tirade with a finger poked into his chest. Sam had struggled to his feet, unsure whether to intervene. Dean's mouth fell open, and after a long moment, he stammered. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

"That's better. And don't call me ma'am." Sarah looked over at Sam. "You. Sit down before you fall over."

"Bossy," Dean muttered, as Sam obeyed without thinking. "Damn."

Sam took a deep breath, and he gestured to the spot on the couch beside him. Sarah sat next to him, and he took her hand. "Sarah, you can't – you can't call attention to yourself like that. It's dangerous. You're …" He struggled to find the right word. "You're a civilian."

The fight went out of Sarah as quickly as it had come. "Then what – what are you going to do?"

"Figure it out," Sam said, with resolute determination. "That's what we always do. We figure it out."