Author's Notes:

This is a story that I actually wrote in 2004 (my first Supernatural, well fanfic, ever). I'm posting it here for two reasons. 1) I've got a bit of writer's block and two stories (a WIP and a little one-shot thing) that I am in the middle of and can't seem to get any further. And, 2) The WIP actually contains a character that I created in this story. Hopefully by posting this multi-chap piece, I will be inspired to finish my other two on-the-shelf projects. I appreciate any support you can give!

A/N2: this story takes place directly after Asylum (and then goes on into AU). Also, if you read 'Like Father, Like Son' – don't be confused. This story gives John a different past/family.

Welcome to the Club

I've been living on the edge so long
Where the winds of limbo roar
And I'm young enough to look at
And far too old to see
All the scars are on the inside

Veteran of the Psychic Wars, Blue Oyster Cult

Sam was standing over his brother, watching him gasp in pain and shock. An evil smirk fell across Sam's face. Every bit of his brain was pulsing with loathing for Dean. Every moment of their childhood, of their hunts with Dad, of his happy college life ending with his loss of Jessica, and now his being pulled back to the life he tried to leave behind was playing in his angry mind. All of the feelings and memories mixing together to form one large ball of rage, and at the moment, Dean seemed to be the personification for it all. Something in his brain was telling him that, if he could just be rid of his brother once and for all, he would be happy.

That was the solution. And his brother had so obligingly given him a gun. Dean was telling him to shoot. But, of course he would. Dean always had to control everything, even his own destruction. That was the reason Sam paused. He wanted the hurting and ire gone, but he resented that his brother was still, even at the end, telling him what to do.

His brain was burning, urging him to kill. Telling him that it would all be over once Dean was dead. Dead Dean. It had a happy sort of ring to it, and who cared if Dean was still trying to take control. Sam would still have the last word, or shot, as it were. So, he pulled the trigger. Nothing. Slight confusion as he fired again, and again, and again, each time with the same result.

Sam looked at his brother's face and saw that Dean was still trying to take control. He gave Sam an empty gun. That was the point where all hell broke loose in Sam's already disturbed brain. He quickly flipped the gun in his hand so that he was holding the barrel and hit Dean across the temple with it. A weapon's a weapon, Sam thought. He hit Dean again and again and again.

Each blow brought satisfaction. Sam's brain was ringing with it. No, it wasn't his brain, it was a phone. Dean's phone.

Sam woke up slowly, but gratefully, at the sound of Dean's cell phone ringing on the nightstand. He called his brother's name, but neither the ring nor Sam's voice seemed to wake Dean. Sam sleepily reached for the phone and answered it. The voice on the other end made him sit up straight in the motel bed, exhausted no more.

"Dad?"

Even though the voice was broken and the line was full of static, Sam knew it was Dad. He could only pick out a few words before the line went dead. The number that came through had been unknown, but Sam still tried each of the cell numbers that Dad had ever had. Nothing.

Sam closed up the phone and placed it back on the nightstand. The whole episode hadn't really been loud, but Sam hadn't taken the time to be quiet about his actions. He looked over at his brother, taken aback that Dean was still asleep. Dean, the guy who would be fully awake at the sound of a small sigh, the guy who would be standing with knife in hand and ready to strike if Sam turned over too loudly in his sleep, looked as if he hadn't moved since falling into his bad last night. Or, truth be told, early this morning.

Dean had had enough energy to drive them both back to the motel, but had barely made it to his bed after a very quick remove-the-dirt, blood, and rock salt shower. As the old cliché goes, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow, and it had been Sam who took the time to pull the covers over him. Sam had never before tucked his brother into bed, it has always been the other way around. It took a small slice of his guilt away to think that he had been helpful. A very small slice. Really, a sliver.

The dark rainbow of bruising on Dean's chest hadn't been visible when they went to sleep. It's presence now brought back that sliver of Sam's guilt, and then some. There were also strange almost-scorchlike discolorations on the sides of Dean's face, at his temples, and just under his jaw that Sam didn't recognize until he got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. When he looked up into the mirror, he saw the same marks, only darker. He realized that the ghost of Dr. Ellicott the elder had tried to put the mind whammy on Dean, too. Only, apparently, Dean was able to fight him off. And destroy the guy in the process. More guilt.

Sam dressed slowly. Not so much to be quiet, but because his head still ached. While he was able to push back the anger and see it for what it really was, simple annoyances amplified by a crazy ghost doctor, the throbbing was still there.

And still, Dean slept. Sam started to worry. The concern only subsided somewhat at the sight of his brother's chest rising and falling, ever so slightly, to prove that Dean was actually breathing. Sam touched his shoulder softly and cautiously, ready to defend himself for a sudden attack.

"Dean?" he almost whispered. Nothing.

"Dean?" he said a little louder and gently nudged his shoulder. At this, Dean moved his head groggily and spoke, or kind of grunted a 'huh?' without opening his eyes.

"Dean, Dad called." The acid test. This actually got a bit more of a response.

"What'dhesay," Dean mumbled, still not opening his eyes, but moving his head a bit in an attempt to crack his neck.

"Not much," Sam told him, trying to keep the uneasiness from his voice, as he leaned back away from the bed. "The connection was bad and he cut out before he could give me much. All I got was a name. At least, I think it was a name."

In fact, all he really heard was Sam… help… cold… Martin. There was so much static and noise that he couldn't even be sure that was what was said. But, he had a feeling in his gut that Dad was telling him the name of someone who needed help, and that was what he was going on.

"Well," Dean mumbled, finally starting to wake up, "look it up."

Sam crossed the room to the small table where Dad's journal sat. He dropped into the chair and began flipping through the pages. Dean, eyes finally open, rolled onto his side and slowly sat up. Sam could tell that every movement was painful even if Dean was attempting his usual macho attitude and trying to keep the soreness at bay. Apparently, he stopped trying, because he put his head down into his hands.

"There any aspirin in the first aid kit?" he asked, without looking up at Sam. Sam, in answer, quickly got up and got the bottle of pills, filled a glass with water, and handed both to Dean. Dean gingerly reached out for the bottle, opened it, and poured a few pills into his mouth. Sam didn't see how many, and he was sure that that was Dean's intention.

"Thanks," Dean said after taking the water and swallowing down the pills. When he finally looked up at Sam, he looked weary and weak, something Sam was not really ready to see but he still smiled feebly and took the pills and glass back. Dean started to stand and Sam, realizing that he wasn't going to make it on his own, reached out his hand to help.

"Thanks," Dean said again, this time with a little more defeat in his voice. "I'm gonna get a shower. Can you look up that name?" When Sam nodded, Dean slowly and stiffly made his way to the bathroom. Sam waited until he heard the water start and then sat back down and began looking in Dad's journal again.

By the time Dean came out of the bathroom, looking more awake and a bit stronger, Sam had Dad's journal open to a page with a name and address on it. Sam, however, was across the room, trying to clean up the place a bit and packing up their gear. He had made coffee and had a steaming mug sitting waiting for Dean near the journal.

Dean smiled slightly to himself as he sat down at the table and took the coffee. Two sugars and no cream, just the way he took it. He also saw that Sam had put out clothes for him on his bed.

"I think I found the name," Sam told him and nodded toward the journal. "I'm going to take this stuff out to the car, okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly and with a smile. Sam gave a little smile back and was out the door. Dean got dressed, took another sip of coffee, and looked at the name in the journal. The entry was two-toned. The name 'Kole Marten' and an address were scrawled in Dad's almost unintelligible handwriting in black ink. Then, the address had been crossed out, a new one written in, and the word 'Professor' written in front of the name in blue ink. Dean searched his memory for the name without luck. Marten almost sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Well, what do you think?" Sam asked when he came back in.

"I think we should go and meet this guy."