There was something timeless about Stanford, something inherently antiquated about the greyish tan stone and red roofs. It felt old, like a snapshot of the past dropped into modern-day California. Driving down the paved university streets in a '67 Chevy Impala - the Impala that had been their only home for years, that had decades of history soaked into leather seats and crammed into door pockets - felt like another piece of the past joining into the anachronistic backdrop.

And yet, as the plaques scattered around kept reminding him, Dean didn't belong on the campus. A relic whose roots lay in 1967 - for a second, he wasn't sure if he meant Baby or himself - fit in on a campus from the 1880s as much as he did in the real world of 2004: not at all. He didn't belong, adrift in the tumultuous sea of time and space without his usual anchor to ground him.

Dean had never truly been lost. Even in random motel rooms, dingy and skeevy in equal measure, he'd had a purpose, a job for which he'd volunteered six months before he was drafted into it by his father, a responsibility that had been rightfully his since the screaming, pink bundle of Sam Winchester came home in his mother's arms. He was to protect Sammy and that was what he was going to do, whether it meant something as simple as giving him the last of his Lucky Charms or something as permanent as laying down his life for his baby brother.

That purpose had guided him for as long as he could remember, but it was gone, damaged with "You walk out that door, Sam, don't come back" and weakened further with each day, with each mile that separated Dean from his brother. Without it, he was torn, listless as his being was rent in two, caught between hunting - listening to his brother and staying away, saving people from what was waiting in the dark, doing something useful with his life - and the constant worry filling him when he couldn't see Sammy, couldn't watch his back, couldn't make sure he was safe.

As it was, he took every opportunity to visit. He'd stopped calling after a while, stopped hoping to be allowed to visit after too many missed calls and too few attempts to call back, but nothing could keep him from at least dropping by to make sure that Sam was still okay. If his brother didn't want to see him, he could watch from the background… and if that made him as much a monster lurking in the shadows as anything he hunted, it was a price he was willing to pay.

And he couldn't bring himself to stop, either, to leave his brother behind in California of all places. Not when he still looked so much like the kid Dean practically raised, all puppy dog eyes and shaggy hair, taking stupid risks while unarmed in unfamiliar territory. He couldn't just disappear, couldn't carry on with the rambling Winchester lifestyle when his brother was still naïve enough to walk down a pitch-black street at midnight without even a knife in his pocket.

Still, Dean knew his brother wasn't helpless; he was protective - Sam would say over-protective - but he wasn't ignorant. Hell, he'd trained the kid himself, so he, of all people, knew exactly what Sam could do. It was why he'd taken on the job, why he'd volunteered for that responsibility too. He'd had to make sure it was done right.

The motel room was one of the weirdest they'd ever seen, which was saying something. The door had opened to reveal a bright blue room, shelves scattered around the walls and positively covered in dolphin knick-knacks and fishy - literally - curios. As soon as the door had opened, Sam had laughed out loud, snorting at the beach-themed room and disappearing into the bathroom for first shower. Dean had entered just after, setting his duffel bag down at the foot of his own bed, stifling his own laugh at the idea of that particular motel room in Arizona of all places.

The mirth swiftly disappeared as his father stepped closer, standing still with his head cocked towards the bathroom, listening. He didn't move - and, thus, neither did Dean - until the water started, the sound of sharply pelting droplets cascading against the shower wall providing background noise for whatever it was his dad wanted to say.

He didn't know what he expected to hear, but it definitely wasn't, "No hunt tomorrow. I'm starting Sam's training. You're gonna do some training yourself at 0400, but then I want you to strip and clean the weapons from the Impala. Take your time; not one of your usual slipshod rush jobs, you got that? Car could use a tune-up, too; carburetor was sounding off today. I'm takin' it easy on Sam. It's his first day; he'll be off at noon."

Distantly, Dean knew what was expected of him, knew that his dad was waiting for the usual "Yes, sir" that came with any order or instruction. And yet too much of his head was focused on the fact that his father was going to train Sammy, that the kid was only eleven and had barely even learned that monsters existed, that he was too young to deal with any of the Winchester life for Dean to simply agree.

Because he knew his dad's training, knew what a simple lesson entailed. Sure, maybe he was going to take it easy on Sam in terms of time - the kid was just starting out; no way could he deal with the usual twelve hour sessions - but that didn't make the training itself any easier. That didn't mean he wouldn't pull out some of the exercises he'd used on Dean, and he couldn't just sit idly by as his brother was left in the woods to see if he could find his way out, much less buried alive and made to climb his way to the surface, fighting against the force of the earth itself. And he certainly couldn't take advantage of Sam starting training to slack off, to only deal with a few hours of early-morning bootcamp before getting to sit around and do nothing but clean weapons and fix a rattling carburetor.

So, instead, he simply straightened, ignored his father's glare at his lack of agreement, and did his best to sound confident as he said, "I could do it." The glare sharpened, and he hastened to amend the sentence. "Sir."

His dad was still frowning when he answered, though Dean swore there was an appraising glint in his eye that told of weighing options, of contemplating the best course. "Why?"

"Because, sir, if you're right that the Mogollon Monster is really a wendigo, then you'll have to hunt tonight. They're fast. I know the training; I know what Sam needs to learn. I can do mine at the same time, kill three birds. Sam gets trained, I get trained, you can prepare for the hunt. I'll do the weapons, too. And the car." He paused, then added, "You taught me everything I know; I can show Sam what you've shown me."

Neither moved for a moment, only the rattling of old motel pipes and water rushing through them breaking the silence. Dean watched as his father's eyes narrowed in evaluative concentration, then nodded. "Fine. 0600 to 1000. Make sure he learns something or I'm taking over, and you will not like me taking over. You copy?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

His father returned the motion as he walked towards the door. "Good." Before he reached it, he turned back, frowning for a second before adding, "And don't slack off on those guns. I need 'em clean, and the car working, you got that?" Dean nodded, but his dad kept talking. "And you've still got training at four. Sam starts when you stop, or at six, whatever's first. It's up to you." And then he was gone, door shutting before Dean even opened his mouth to agree.

– – – –

The sun still hadn't risen by the time Dean made his way back to the motel, sweat cooling as it traced in rivulets down his back. He'd waited as long as possible before heading back, pushing the boundary between letting Sam sleep in as much as possible and obeying the mandated 0600 start time. The kid needed his sleep for what was to come. Besides, waking up on a dime was a key component of Winchester training, so technically it still followed orders.

Sam didn't sleep like their father, like Dean. Marine-trained John Winchester had covered that early on; Lesson Number 1: Stay battle-ready at all times. Sleep on your back, sleep on your side, don't sleep on your stomach unless you have your hand under the pillow and wrapped around the hilt of a knife or the grip of a gun. Sam, though, didn't merely sleep face-down, but tangled up in sheets and blankets with his head buried under the pillow, too used to trying to sleep through the sounds of hunt preparations to worry about being ready to fight.

Dean stepped over to the bed, shaking his sleeping brother as gently, while insistently, as possible. He had to teach the kid, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn't take it as easy on him as possible… Except Sam merely snorted, hand detaching from the pillow to swat at Dean like a particularly annoying fly, snorting and mumbling a "G' 'way" as he rolled further into the pillow. The kid had always been stubborn - awake or asleep - and right then was no exception.

Dean tried again, a little harsher, a little more frantically. As bad as it felt to be so harsh to the kid, he really did have to wake up. It'd be worse for Sam if he didn't, worse if their father found out and took over his training, worse when their father turned drill sergeant more than Dean ever would. No, it wasn't about Dean's sensibilities, but about doing what needed to be done so worse didn't happen.

Still, Dean couldn't help regretting the loss of Sam's naïve confidence in his own security as he grabbed at the blankets, ripping them to the ground in one fell swoop. It hurt to watch Sam flail as he fell, scrabbling for purchase as the ground literally dropped out from under him, an undignified squawk and an angry "What the hell?!" rising from the lump of bedclothes on the floor.

Dean fought back the urge to apologize in favor of nudging the lump with his foot, forcing a cheery smile into his voice that he was well aware didn't even reach his lips, much less his eyes. "Rise 'n shine, Sammy. We gotta go."

Sam finally extricated himself from the nest of pillows and blankets on the floor, sitting up with tired anger in his glare. "What was that for?"

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, bud, but you wouldn't wake up."

"The sun's not even up, it- it's six o'clock on a weekend."

"Training time, Sammy. Let's go."

Dean could see awareness seeping into his brother's eyes, but the kid still didn't move. "Training?" He paused, straightening and looking around confusedly. "Where's Dad, then?"

"Outta luck there, too. Guess you're stuck with me." He forced as cocky a grin as he could manage, but it fell as he watched disappointment spread across his brother's face. "C'mon, up and at 'em. He'll be here later." It was a lie - or, at least, he hoped it was a lie, especially if Sam stayed as ridiculously stubborn throughout as he was now - but he had to get Sam moving, had to get him to learn something so their dad didn't take over.

Sam obliged, grumbling as he pushed himself up. His voice was petulant but weary as he stood up, still frowning. "What's the point of this, Dean? Why's he got you doing his dirty work again? It's not like he's ever going to bring me on a hunt. I don't even need to know this shit."

Dean bit his lip, hoping Sam was right, that he wouldn't need any of the training because their father would keep him out of it… But he couldn't count on that, couldn't have faith that Sam would be safe from their jobs, from their lives. The memory of the shtriga was too fresh, the feeling of sheer helplessness as he hefted a shotgun too big to fit in his grip comfortably, pointing it at something he didn't recognize and trying to figure out how to shoot it so that he wouldn't hit Sammy … He couldn't go through that again.

And he wouldn't, if he had anything to say about it. "Come on, Sam. Gotta get moving." He paused, nudging the kid as playfully as possible while darting another glance at the door. "I know, I know, your stubborn ass needs answers, but now's not the time. Come on, bud, let's go." Dean grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from Sam's bed, tossing at him. "Get dressed."

"Come on, Dean, it's not even light out. Can we just wait a bit? Like, a couple hours? Sun's up at 7:30." Sam paused, puppy dog eyes wide, glinting in the limited light. "Can't we just… wait?"

For once, the puppy dog eyes didn't work, their sway paling in comparison to the thought of what would happen to Sam if their dad came back unexpectedly, if he found the kid still undressed and lounging around in the room. "Nope. Come on, let's go. Get dressed." Sam frowned, about to protest, but Dean didn't let him, forcing his voice stern, like their dad's. "Now, Sam."

His movements were slow and uncoordinated as he got ready, stumbling from a mix of tired fugue and frustration, almost toppling twice until he propped himself up on the nightstand with one hand. Dean watched from where he was leaning against the wall, fighting to stay still and get the kid dressed without helping, every protective instinct telling him to stop, to help, to let the kid be.

It was 6:10 by the time they actually got outside, and Sam was still fighting the process every step of the way. He kept asking questions, kept arguing back every two seconds, kept pushing and pushing. He didn't understand what could happen should their father return to find them not training, what he might do to teach Sam when there was nothing and no one holding him back. Sam didn't feel the same sense of sickening dread that had Dean twisting around at every approaching car, listening for the Impala's familiar hum in the dead quiet and worrying that it might be their father coming back.

But Dean did, and it was this that kept him outwardly unsympathetic, that drove him to push his brother, to strike as good a balance between going too easy and too hard on the kid as he could. Whatever he had to do - whatever he felt about what he had to do - he had no choice.

As much as Dean hated the job, he could do it. He wasn't the kind to enjoy giving orders, didn't enjoy seeing his brother struggling to follow an order and yet be unable to ease the burden, to let him stop… but, at the same time, he understood why he had to, why he couldn't let Sam take a break. He knew what was waiting in the dark - more so than Sam did, who only had a cursory sense of what, exactly, the "family business" even was - and he couldn't let his brother be in danger for want of a little training. He just had to make sure that training stuck, and stuck long enough for their dad to be reassured that Dean could handle the job, that he didn't have to step in.

In the end, their father hadn't checked on Sam's training for over a week after Dean started. The so-called Mogollon Monster of Arizona wasn't a wendigo, and whatever it was managed to take a swipe at their dad before he primed the flamethrower and roasted the creature. Their training that week hadn't been the usual grueling exercise regime, but a crash course in how to steal blood from a blood bank, how to carry out a transfusion, and which brand of dental floss was the strongest. By the time his fever broke, Sam's training had been momentarily forgotten.

Still, Sam had learned. He slept differently, mimicking their father, mimicking Dean. He ate differently, right hand always lingering on the knife, left hand pocketing salt packets whenever they got some. He sat differently, tucking his feet beneath him foregone in favor of keeping them flat on the floor. He still pushed back, still asked questions - Dean wasn't sure he'd ever break that habit… and didn't especially want to try, either - but he'd even started listening more, following orders faster.

And so, when Sammy decided to leave for Stanford, to go to school and be normal… the only reason Dean let it happen - hell, helped it happen with a ride to the bus station and whatever cash he had in his pockets - was that he was confident that Sam could keep himself safe. He just also didn't trust his own teaching enough to leave the kid completely alone, to stop visiting and simply trust that he'd be fine. And so he kept visiting, kept immersing himself in the clash of two different pasts warring with a terrifying new future, didn't bother digging himself out of the memories that swarmed him with each revolution of his tires along California cobblestones.

By the time he was heading down Stanford University's main drive, the sky was pitch-black, completely devoid of moon, clouds, and stars. The only light came from street lamps and storefronts on the main road, stretching forward in a bright miasma of light until they cut off abruptly at the boundary line between campus and city. It was pure chance that let him see Sam, in all of his freakish six-foot-four, walking, alone, down the bright street before entering the near-absolute darkness of the college itself. It was slightly less than pure chance that he saw a figure detach from the crowd and start to follow Sam. It was definitely instinct that had him pull over the Impala, parking her on the curb before darting out, every part of him screaming that something was about to go wrong.

Sam had made a dumb mistake; that was the long and short of it. Dean had been out with their dad on a hunt - Alabama, this time, and little more than a relatively weak poltergeist bugging a family - and Sam had stayed in the motel room… or, rather, he was supposed to have stayed in the motel room. Which was why, when they got out of the Impala to find Sam standing near the vending machine, a simple mugger with a knife trying to rob him of the money in his pocket, their father had been so furious.

Dean couldn't blame him. When the light of the headlights had illuminated the struggle going on and his heart practically stopped in his chest, his brother so much shorter than the guy with long, greasy dark hair and a knife that was far, far too big held firmly up against Sammy's throat… He'd snapped just as much as their father, had reached the pair before the engine was even shut off, wrestling the knife away in time to pull Sam away and let their dad take over. He hadn't seen what happened to the guy, but Dean never asked and they had a new knife in the Impala the next day.

The question of training had picked up again that night, after Dean finished triage on the paper-thin slice curving around Sammy's throat, after both checked to make sure the kid was alright, after he was sent to clean himself up in the bathroom. It was a shorter conversation this time, a gruff, "Kid's weak. I want you to take him out tomorrow, get him fighting fit. I don't care what you have to do, but I don't ever want to see him fail in a fight like that again. You hear me?" And Dean had nodded, had agreed, had woken the kid up - this time it only took him a minute to be dressed and ready at the door - and brought him out to the tree-studded parking lot behind the building.

As usual, the first words the kid said were a question. "What are we doing here, Dean?"

"Gotta learn to fight, Sammy. We can't always be there if you need it. We almost weren't." He kept his voice steady and uniform, trying not to let it show just how frightened he had been the night before, trying not to show just how much it hurt to see Sam's face fall into something borderline terrified at the memory.

"Dean, I was just heading to the vending machine. I won't do it again, I promise, but this really isn't necessary." Dean didn't react, and Sam tried again. "C'mon, Dean, please? I don't need this. I'll never need this. It's stupid. I don't want to. Please don't make me do this."

It took everything Dean had not to cave, not to let Sam head inside. In the end, it was only the memory of his dad's warning - make sure he learns something or I'm taking over - and of how he'd looked at the bottle of whiskey like it held everything good in its amber depths that kept him resolute. Dean had trained under both versions of their father, knew that, while sober John Winchester was a hard-ass with a penchant for getting things done the hard way, drunk John Winchester was worse.

And so Dean ignored his brother begging to go back inside, only turning away for long enough steel himself before shaking his head. "Sorry, brother. This isn't a punishment; it's just training. Now, listen up… You never know when you're gonna need this, you got me?"

The streets weren't totally dark. Even before his eyes adjusted, he could see enough to guide himself down the path, to avoid the shadows of trees and shrubberies, to see the silhouettes of two people walking just in front of him. It was that night at the motel all over again, that same fear filling him until he could barely hear over the staccato beat of his own heart in his ear as he watched someone stalking his brother, breath harsh-sounding and visible in the cool air.

And yet, despite the worry coursing through him, he couldn't move to help, couldn't let Sammy know that he was there unless it was absolutely necessary, especially not with the possibility that it was a misunderstanding or an honest mistake, that maybe he was wrong and the guy wasn't following Sam at all, was simply another college student walking back home along the same path. The alternative possibilities didn't do much to calm him down - hell, they didn't do anything at all except infuriate him as they held him back from preempting any crisis - but they were running through his head all the same.

In the end, though, it was Sam who made the first move, Sam who charged towards the mysterious stranger, Sam who slammed him up against something nearby with an arm at the guy's throat and an antagonistic "Who are you and why are you following me?" with enough volume and clarity for Dean to hear him from strides away.

The guy didn't even bother trying to talk. Dean was still too far back to do anything but jolt forward as the stranger raised his knee and buried it into Sam's gut, trying to sprint off towards the dorms the second he was able to worm his way free.

The sight of Sam crouched on the sidewalk, coughing and gagging for air was not something Dean had ever wanted to see. It was why he'd tried to train Sam in the first place, the very thing he'd tried to avoid by handling it himself instead of letting their father do it. He'd done everything he could to keep Sam from being the one curled up on the ground struggling to breathe, the one ecstatic because he could breathe, the one watching as someone he trusted watched dispassionately from the shadows nearby. He knew that feeling, flashes of recollection - the crazed euphoria of breathing in fresh air, of coughing out the mud and dirt from his airways, of giving his stinging hands and feet a break, looking around for his father leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing, the same inscrutable mask dropped into place -- flitting through his head as he started to move, to chase down the man who had just dared attack Sammy…

Except, the brother in question was already moving, rising from the ground and chasing after the guy, and Dean had to falter to a stop to keep from getting too close. He had to stay back and watch, trying to keep his breath from catching in his throat as Sammy - no, this was Sam, the adult Sam, the Sam who went off to college and can handle myself, Dean -- reached the guy in seconds, darting out a foot and sweeping the wannabe-thief to the ground.

Sam nudged the guy over, face smooth and immobile as the guy scraped his already bruised face against the ground in the motion, groaning in pain and grabbing at his shin. With clinical, graceful efficiency, Sam started to rifle through the guys pocket, a butterfly knife and a wad of cash coming out of the guys pockets. He said something to the man on the ground, though Dean couldn't hear what, and started to walk away.

Dean could tell that was a mistake the second Sam started to do it; after all, their dad had made that clear from early on: you don't turn your back on an unsecured enemy. There's too much that can go wrong, too little you can control. Even without seeing the guy's pain fall away the second Sam wasn't looking, the smirk on his face mixed with ease as he rolled over and pushed himself up meant that an ambush could be devastating: or fatal.

Somehow, though, Sam was ready, whirling around with the knife already opened, the business end plunging into the stranger's shoulder, angled just such a way to slide in vertically from underneath his collarbone, sinking to the hilt and almost lifting the guy off his feet. The guy let out a choking breath as his feet kicked futilely for the ground, face crumpled in pain as he sought footing to alleviate the pressure, failing until Sam yanked out the knife and let him fall to the ground.

And then the kid promptly fell to the ground with him, hands darting to the mugger's bleeding shoulder wound and applying pressure, hands expertly staunching the blood before fishing around in his pockets for a phone, dialing three numbers whose recognizable tones foretold a call to 9-1-1.

Dean stayed until the ambulance got there, until the flashing red and blue lights of medical attention assured him that Sam was safe and that staying longer was dangerous. He cast one last look at his brother - at the kind of man who would be put in the position where he had to stab someone in self-defense and then would choose to administer emergency first aid, at the kind of man he'd never be - and then melted back into the shadows.

This time, as he walked to the Impala and drove away from Stanford University and its strange time capsule to the past, he wasn't worried. Sam could handle himself; of that, he was certain.