A Brother's Sacrifice

by ayosb2000

Completely AU. John really did want Dean to have a home and for Sam to go to school. At Sonny's, Dean saw the possibility of another life, but chose family. Sam is chafing under his father's thumb. An exploration of what might have happened if Dean stood up to his father and decided that normal and hunting could co-exist. A large re-write of a previous story I wrote years ago.

9. January 2001

A/N Big Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last chapter! Special thanks to the guest reviewers that I don't get a chance to send PM thank yous to. I appreciate your support and feedback. A little less angst this chapter than the last one ;)

/

Her name is Cherry.

Sam doesn't care if it sounds ridiculous, and he's certainly not going to take any shit about it from the brother who has christened his own car Baby.

After spending years mocking Dean's decidedly unhealthy and slightly pornographic boy/car love with the Impala, he realizes that he has been an ass. That there is absolutely nothing wrong with feeling a genuine adoration and territorial protection over something as beautiful as a classic Chevy.

He gets it now, why his brother would sooner lose a finger on his gun hand than let anyone other than his immediate family get behind the wheel of the Impala. Even Sam and John aren't allowed except under the most singular of circumstances.

Parked in the lot at Holy Rosary, Sam squints with beady, distrusting eyes at anyone that attempts to even come near his Camaro without a specific invite, and only a handful of his closest friends are actually permitted the grand privilege of riding in the passenger seats.

Technically, she belongs to his father.

Sam is still a minor, so the title and registration to her is in John's name, and his dad is the one that carries and pays for the insurance. That's okay with Sam, because the title to the Impala isn't solely in Dean's name either. It's held jointly by John and Dean, and is insured by John as well.

As adult as his big brother is, Dean is still only twenty-one, and when John gave his firstborn the keys, it was with the understanding that legal ownership would be shared until Dean was twenty-five and car insurance wouldn't be a prohibitively unaffordable fortune.

The Winchesters don't have a lot of disposable cash and expenses need to be kept at a minimum, and while their little family bends a lot of laws as part of their family business, the vehicles are always kept clean and perfectly legit. John has been lucky insofar that he's never seen serious enough identity trouble to change that fact.

Regardless of the legalities, Cherry belongs to Sam.

She's the first thing of material substance that Sam has ever had of his own. The first time he has a possession of any real value that he is not expected to share with anyone else. Dean may be the benchmark for the overwhelmingly vast majority of Winchester boy firsts, but he didn't have a car at seventeen.

Then again, Dean didn't have a big brother to build him one either, and Sam's heart hurts for everything that his brother never had in life.

Cherry's keys came with Mom's photo, and that little fact is still blowing Sam's mind, and the addition of House Rules #31 to #36.

The majority of Sam's Christmas vacation was spent either in the driver's seat with Dad or Dean riding shotgun and giving him excruciatingly detailed lessons on winter road safety, and considering that Sam was just in an accident he can't really blame them, or in the closed bay at Uncle Bobby's garage being dragged through a million drudging instructions in basic automotive repair.

Big brother was determined that Sam be able to handle her no matter what problem arose.

Sam was expected to treat her with respect at all times, maintain her in meticulous condition, and never, ever take any unnecessary risks. Passengers were cleared in advance of any car rides, Dean was the final authority on when, and if, Sam could drive her in less than perfect weather, and both father and brother reserved the right to take her keys from him at their discretion if he wasn't being responsible enough.

Dean would pay to fill her tank once a week, but any other routine expense was Sam's alone.

Sam accepted the restrictions without hesitation, already hopelessly in love with her sleek lines and shiny chrome accessories. The seats that made him feel like a race car driver, and the sportier style that made her look like the Impala's naughty little sister.

While the Impala's purring engine had been the lullaby of his childhood, and could still rock him to sleep faster than a glass of warm milk or whatever emergency pain pill they managed to score, Cherry's sultry growl was pure and unadulterated sin.

He still couldn't believe that his brother, and especially his father, had taken the time to build him a car. It's not that he doesn't know that they love him.

Of course he knows that.

Sam can't explain, even to himself, why such a large gesture on their part is so far out of the realm of their normal that he's still having a hard time wrapping his melon around it. Their family doesn't do big gestures, even for each other. Dad also doesn't waste time he could be hunting by doing massive and time consuming automotive projects.

They are duty and sacrifice. Messy, dangerous hunts and motel room patch jobs. Gruff affection and little brother beat downs. Greasy diner food and vending machines. They do what they do, and they shut up about it.

He should have known that something was up.

That morning, after John had taken Sam up to his room for their talk, Dad had pulled him into a one armed hug when they were finished while Sam collected himself, because if there was one thing you could say about John Winchester, it was that he was never stingy about giving affection to a punished boy.

If you fucked up, it was guaranteed that Dad would yell until your ears bled and then whip your ass good and proper, but then it was over and forgiven. The brothers were never left with the impression that their father was holding a grudge.

Dad had held him tight, with Sam sniffling into his father's shoulder, deep rumbling whispered words of comfort in his ear. Sam hated how needy he always felt afterwards, no matter how much he had grown. Sore and miserable, and all of five years old, and it wasn't fair that his father's gravelly warm voice could calm the tempest of chaos in his mind, like Sam was still a young child in his arms.

How his father's steady and strong presence never failed to help Sam regain his center of gravity, when his fluctuating range of emotions just had him spinning in a frenzy of confusion and pain. For all of their frequent clashes and heated word conflicts, John's shoulder remained the primary zone of safety and security for his youngest son.

When Sam was calm, Dad had told him that he was grounded for a month, and Sam had accepted it without a word of complaint, even though the duration was unusually excessive.

Still feeling horribly guilty, ready and willing to take whatever got dished out at him, and then some, and then some more besides. After hurting his brother so badly, nothing Dad said or did to him would have been remotely enough in Sam's mind. Not nearly enough to encompass all of the penance he owed for this most egregious of sins.

Later, at dinner, Dad had informed Dean about Sam's restrictions, because big brother would be the one enforcing them, and Dean had uncharacteristically asked their Dad to make it just until Christmas Day, which had only been a little more than two weeks away at the time. Sam had assured his brother that he was okay with it, but Dean simply ignored him.

Dad and Dean seemed to have a wordless conversation between them for a moment, their father's mouth pursed in an irritated frown over his firstborn's insubordinate presumption, but then Dad had finally agreed and backed down, for the first time ever.

Sam should have known then.

Because Dean would rather take on three wendigos single-handedly, with a lamia chaser, than question Dad's parenting decisions, but he also wouldn't be cruel enough to give Sam a car for Christmas that he wasn't allowed to drive that day either and, apparently, neither was Dad.

Quite a few of the students at Holy Rosary came from well-to-do families, and the student parking lot had its share of glossy, pricey vehicles. That first morning back after vacation, many heads turned with jealousy to see the blue beauty turn in, and the adorably messy haired Sam Winchester behind the wheel.

Clearly, the Winchester brothers not only shared ridiculously good looks, they also shared a fondness for sexy, classic muscle cars, and there might have been more than a little overt swooning going on.

Contrary to Sam's belief at the time, the resulting fallout of that disastrous party did little to affect his overall popularity. Having been a valued member of the soccer team, the friends he had made there didn't desert him out of some peer pressure induced loyalty to Trenton's posse. The entirety of the smart kids clique were offended directly on his behalf as well, and they closed ranks around him, metaphorically sheltering him like a baby bird with a broken wing.

In fact, considering how aggressively Trenton and the football players were trying to shove Kristin's unfaithfulness in his face out of sheer unearned malice, there were more students who sided with the always sweet and helpful Sam over the boorish behavior of jocks that had been generally cruel to anyone they didn't feel worthy of their condescension or notice.

Dean's advice on how to act in school afterwards had been invaluable.

That snowy day they spent together watching movies and mending their brotherhood, Sam had desperately needed reassurances and guidance from the big brother that had helped him navigate through all of the hurts and heartaches in his life.

Soon after the ending credits for Beastmaster 2, Dad had left to borrow a few books from Uncle Bobby and pick up Chinese food for the boys. Once his truck had cleared the driveway, Sam turned off the television and confessed everything about what had happened in the Harris house before he went on the Jack bender, as well as the couple of hard days at Holy Rosary afterwards.

Dean had listened, with mounting concern and wrath, while Sam bared his soul over the betrayal, the tidal wave of anger and pain he had felt afterwards, and the uncertainty he now felt about his friends and his place at school. It hadn't been easy for the terminally shy Sam to talk about it, the shame of his own embarrassment and his general insecurity on display in front of the brother who had always confidently navigated the complexities of teen drama.

Uneasily, he watched as Dean's face vacillated between the soft and adoring look of It's okay, Sammy. Don't you worry. Big Brother's gonna fix this and the cold blooded killer stare of I'm gonna rip their fucking lungs out!

Dean had taken him by the chin, giving Sam his best no nonsense glare.

"You don't ever let them see you bleed, Sammy. Never."

Sam knows this. Has always been trained to keep his emotions in check.

"You show 'em that they wounded you? It only gives them satisfaction. You keep your game face on, kiddo. You smile at them with your mouth, and tell them to fuck off with your eyes. You hear me?"

And Sam had stared up at him, with all of the hero worship on his face that he had felt for his big brother since childhood, because Dean was a goof and a jerk sometimes, but he loved Sam and had never steered him wrong.

"Okay, Dean."

Then Dean had smiled. The cocky, sure grin of someone plotting and scheming and loving it.

"They'll get theirs, little brother. I promise you."

Dean went on to assure Sam that he had good friends at school. That the kids he played soccer with and studied with, and did a million other after school activities with, were not going to think less of him for getting mixed up with some bullying punks, and that Sam could do better than a faithless girl who easily gave her body instead of her heart.

Then he had brushed his hand over the top of Sam's tousled bedhead, just hard enough that he could claim it wasn't at all girly, even though it totally had been, and without another word, he went into the kitchen.

A few moments later, he returned with a plate containing Sam's favorite childhood comfort food of a peanut butter and banana sandwich. He handed Sam the plate and grabbed the video bag again, rummaging around until he pulled out a tape of Red Sonja. He pushed it into the VCR, turned it on, and returned to the couch, lifting Sam's blanketed feet and laying them on his own lap while the movie started.

Sam ate his sandwich, with all of its soft, sugary goodness, and relaxed to the movie, and Dean had spent the next thirty minutes furiously texting.

Of course Dean had been right.

When Sam had gone into school the next day, everything Dean had said was true. He had plastered a smile on his face, taking pains to greet Trenton, Smith and their buddies with a casual indifference. When Kristin had finally summoned up the courage to approach him, he had simply laughed and walked away.

Truly it had made him feel better, especially when he could see their frustration over his lack of reaction.

On the first day of the new semester, Sam had proudly exited from his vehicular beauty, trying to be cool, but hopelessly blushing from the admiring stares. He strode with purpose, a happy lightness in his step, having just enjoyed the best Christmas ever and raring to go with his new classes.

There was an unusually large number of students milling around the hallway when he walked in, and they all seemed to be buzzing about something and throwing looks in his direction which started to make him uneasy.

Feeling self conscious, he headed further into the building and was greeted with the chaotic sight of staff members frantically pulling down photos that seemed to be plastered wall-to-wall on every surface of the main hall.

Someone had pushed one in his hands and his eyes widened in shock when he saw a picture of Kristin and Smith in a very compromising position.

The photos were everywhere.

The entire hallway looked like several copy machines had exploded, and there was a cacophony of jeers and catcalls and unabashed laughter as the teachers and support staff ran around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to minimize the damage.

Momentarily stunned, Sam had examined the photo carefully, and found himself feeling a mixture of horror and amusement as he recognized the work of one of Caleb's associates who handled a lot of the forgery and photography needs for hunters. He didn't even want to know how they managed to fake this image.

He schooled his features, not wanting to give any indication that he was somehow complicit in this mess, acting just as surprised as the others. When the students started finding copies hanging in their lockers as well, Sam knew without a doubt that Dean had been responsible for that little detail.

His brother would have wanted to make sure that everyone got a chance to see it.

Sam recalled Dean's less than enthusiastic participation in that morning's five mile run. No wonder he had been exhausted. Sam didn't have a doubt in his mind that his brother was responsible for this. Dean's creativity, especially when getting revenge on someone that hurt Sam, was boundless.

The only questions were how many of their hunter friends had stealthily broken into Sam's school and spent the night redecorating, and exactly how did his brother crack all of the locker combos.

Trenton didn't take kindly to seeing photos of his best friend and recently reunited girlfriend being intimate splashed around the entire school. He also didn't believe Smith's denials either, since the other boy had often made leering advances towards Kristin that he always laughed off as a joke.

Before the first bell even rang, the two of them were beating the snot out of each other in a brawl that ran the length of the main hallway and into one of the science labs where Sam's physics teacher tried to pull them apart and got a broken nose for his trouble.

By the time the hulking boys were pulled apart, they were bruised and bloody and the proud new owners of three conduct marks each for the damage they had wrought, and Kristin had been escorted out of the school in hysterical tears. Sam knew he should feel bad for her, but he was having a hard time drumming up the sympathy.

Later, at home, Sam casually mentioned what had happened to his brother. Dean reacted with minimal interest, his face the politely casual mask he wore when out in the field with Dad on a job. The only word out of his mouth being,

"Huh."

Then he had gone back to assembling a tuna noodle casserole for dinner without mentioning it again. Sam had smiled to himself and let it go, but when he got up to get ready for bed, he leaned in the doorway of the living room while Dean watched TV.

"Thanks."

Dean looked up at him, took a relaxed sip of his beer, and shrugged.

"Don't know what you're talking about. Just sounds like some dicks got what was coming to 'em, s'all."

Then he winked.

Sam laughed, shaking his head, and wished his brother goodnight, but he went to sleep that night with the comforting thought of how Dean always had his back when he needed him.

Kristin didn't come back to school the next day, and when Trenton and Smith were pulled from their last period class for their paddle date in the principal's office, Sam couldn't keep the smirk off of his face.

He wasn't a cruel person, and he didn't take pleasure in the misfortune of others.

But the small part of him that still grimaced when recalling how Dad's belt had striped his ass like an ironically festive Christmas candy cane, and left him cursing the name Jack Daniels every time he had to sit down for a full two days afterwards, was feeling pretty smug at the moment.

/

It was almost a ten hour drive from Jim's place in Blue Earth to the Campbell family compound in Lansing.

As much as John wasn't looking forward to meeting up with unknown members of his Mary's extended family, who were hunters to boot, he knew that it had to be done.

There were too many questions that needed answering. Too many unknown variables that needed solutions, and John was more concerned about the safety of his children than any discomfort he might feel about coming up close and personal with the people that his beloved late wife had wanted nothing to do with at the time of her death.

John had never met Robert Campbell, Samuel's younger brother.

He had been the one that insisted on putting up a gravestone for Mary after her death, against John's wishes. The one on the other end of terse and increasingly belligerent phone calls that had ended with harsh words, insults and threats. Mary's remains were not at rest there. The fire had been supernatural in origin, and there had been absolutely nothing left of her to bury.

Having seen so much death and destruction in his life, John didn't need a place marker for his wife. He carried her in his heart and in his mind every minute of every day. There was no need for an empty plot for him to go and visit her. She never left him.

He wasn't sure what kind of reception he was going to receive.

Once he had learned the truth about Mary's past, he embarked on the new mission of tracking down her relatives, and found that locating them was significantly easier than he anticipated. Almost as if they wanted him to find them, and that little thought got his suspicions and defenses up even more than they already had been.

With each passing mile, he was beginning to feel that it was more and more likely that he was walking directly into a trap.

It's been two weeks since he left the boys and went radio silent. He wanted to be able to tell them where he was, but it was too dangerous to let them in on his findings just yet. As much as they had grown, and as well as he had raised them right and taught them to be strong, they were still so young.

Still boys, not yet full grown into men.

God, Dean would kill him if John ever said that to his face. Dean, who at almost twenty-two was already two years older than John had been when he returned from the war. Who had been taking on monsters, that would make hardened Marines shit themselves in terror, since he was barely out of puberty.

Didn't matter to John.

As long as John was alive, Dean would be his boy. His child. John had trained him, drilled every single skill he could think of into his son since handing Dean his first gun at age six. Had put him in charge of his little brother, and left them alone and scared while their father went out and hunted down anything that could hurt them.

It still didn't mean that his oldest was fully grown. Not in John's mind anyway, and he would continue to put a wall of silence and distance between them to keep his boy from jumping into this fight, as Dean surely would if he knew what John now knew himself. Still protect his kid from throwing himself into a battle that John had no idea yet how to win.

Dean had been expecting his middle of the night exit. Had known that the brief interlude of their holiday was only temporary, even though he said nothing. Simply taking it for what it was, and deriving whatever comfort and enjoyment he could from those few fleeting days of Christmas-y, snowy bucolic afternoons and relaxed, stress-free evenings, when they could just pretend they were a regular family for once.

Just for a little while.

Always on alert, and already sitting up in his bed expectantly, when John made his way into his sons' bedrooms to say goodbye. Dean hadn't questioned it. Never did, good boy that he was. Simply sat in his bed, shoulders stiff and at attention, even in his sleep clothes, moonlight highlighting the smattering of childish freckles on his nose. He took his father's orders and a wad of cash for expenses without a word of reproach for the abrupt departure.

Duty, responsibility and obedience personified, as always, with the barest of pinches in his eyes over the news that John would be out of contact for the indefinite future, and only a warm pat on the shoulder from his father to give him comfort.

It had been hard to leave Sammy too.

John's little boy, now an inch taller than his father, and still growing. Who had been happy and easy going for the first time in years around John. Gone was the moody, rebellious teenager, all spitfire and bucking orders just because. Stubborn and argumentative and as big a pain in the ass as John had ever been. In his place was a smiling, easy to please kid.

Joking, laughing and looking at John with adoration he hadn't seen in his youngest son's eyes in over a decade, before a multitude of disappoints, and the crippling loss of faith in his father.

That last night when John had gone into Sam's room, and had to say goodbye to sleep tousled hair, and wide hazel eyes blinking owlishly at him, and wordlessly begging his dad to just stay. To not go away this time, leaving them alone and afraid that they may never see him again, and goddamn it, John had wanted to stay. Wanted to smooth his hand over Sammy's floppy curls and lull his boy back to sleep with hopeful, sunny promises of tomorrow, and the next day and the next.

Would have given anything to just stay in that warm cozy house with his boys and put down his sword of vengeance and fucking be there for his kids while they were still young enough to want him around. To start trying to make up for all that they lost and missed out on. Things he was too busy and obsessed and half out of his mind with grief to give them.

He wanted that more than anything.

Didn't mean he still hadn't needed to go.

To climb into his frozen truck in the dark of night, leaving his boys behind, to fend for themselves while their father headed out into the uncertainty of a journey to uncover the secrets of the origin of all the pain and unhappiness and loss in their lives.

How would he ever be able to tell his boys that their mother and her family had been hunters? Could they ever understand that? John couldn't understand it himself, so how would he explain it to his sons?

Tell his children that their entire lives had been built on a lie? That the mother they thought they knew had actually had deep, dark secrets, and that she might have been the one responsible for drawing real evil to their happy home. It was exactly what John had been afraid of all of these years that he was doing himself.

Why he kept his boys moving, hidden and on lock down, because you never knew what might be following you home to your kids, when you lived your life in the shadows, and made enemies of things that didn't understand concepts like decency and mercy. Would not hesitate to gain their revenge on a hunter by taking from him that which he held most dear.

John had spent the last seventeen years feeling like he was one step ahead of disaster. On the edge of a razor sharp knife. Always on the run, looking over his shoulder and gripping a son with each hand as he white knuckled his way through life. An endless maze of possibilities and uncertainties and wild guesses, trying to figure it all out while keeping them safe.

He roused himself from his troubling thoughts long enough to consult his map and confirm that the road veering off to the right in the distance was the one he needed to take. The sun had already set, and the Sierra's headlights were reflecting scattered snowflakes that swirled in the air as he pushed forward. Every minute took him closer, and as they ticked by, he felt his hands tensing on the wheel of the truck.

Soon enough he could make out the sight of the chain link fence that ran the perimeter of the compound. The fence was tall, with a heavy coils of razor sharp barbed wire lining the top, leaving no doubt that visitors were actively discouraged from approaching. The compound itself was huge if the fence was any indication. John counted off nearly half a klick in length before he reached the entry gate.

John had never seen anything like the armed manpower at the entry. Clearly the Campbells were some paranoid twitchy bastards. No less than a dozen men and women all spread around the gate in positions of offensive advantage. Armed to the teeth with a variety of heavy weapons that made the guard posts John had seen in the DMZ look like fucking Sunday tea parties.

He pulled up as near as he dared, hyper aware of the proximity of the Taurus hidden in his lap and the Ruger just peeking out between his coat and his left pants pocket. Safeties off and ready to do business, and John fast enough and talented enough to shoot both simultaneously, straight and true in different directions if the situation called for it.

He lowered the driver's side window, and silently submitted to their tests, as he knew would be required. One of the guards passed him a flask with salted holy water, and John downed it, pushing back the distrust he felt from having to drink something given to him by complete strangers. It went against every grain he had in him.

A dark haired young man, who couldn't be any older than his Dean, proceeded to make a rather enthusiastic cut on John's forearm with a silver knife, and John felt a small twinge of satisfaction when his own superior intimidating glare forced the little asshole to look away. John was tempted for a minute to smack the attitude right off the kid's face, but restrained himself, and when his examiners were finally satisfied, John was waved through.

The main building was actually a series of corrugated metal structures, all haphazardly laid out and welded together. In the background he could hear the barking of penned up dogs and the steady buzz of loud conversations and machinery. He exited his truck, taking as many weapons as he could reasonably hide on his person. Knew that he would most likely be relieved of some, but John was a clever bastard, and they would never find them all without getting a bullet to the head.

John was willing to go on a little faith here, but he hadn't survived this long in the The Life by being stupid.

He was pointed in a general direction, and wasn't surprised to see that everyone was obviously informed of exactly who he was. The entire place gave off a cult vibe, and if this was how the family had always been, it was no wonder that Mary wanted out.

Then he remembered the perfectly normal house that the Campbells lived in in Lawrence, and wondered if there were varying degrees of dedication between the different branches.

As he walked through the first two rooms, there was a general sense of worker bee atmosphere surrounding the various men, women and children gathered around the tables making ammo, melting silver, preparing gallons of holy water and cleaning weapons.

Place looked more decked out with firepower than the entirety of Echo-Two-One.

At the end of the last hallway, he was pointed to a door on the left by a sentry that looked at John like he wanted to slit his throat and had a decidedly unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene. John nodded at him and glared until the man moved out his way, and then headed into the office.

Robert Campbell had to have been close to seventy years old at this point by John's rough estimate, considering that John himself was pushing forty-seven. You couldn't really tell by looking at the older man. He was tall. Very tall, and John had a passing idle thought that maybe it was this branch of Mary's family that was the genetic marker for the rapid growth in his Sammy.

Robert shared his older brother's male pattern baldness, and broad stance, and for someone in advancing years, John wasn't so sure he would want to tangle with the man.

It wasn't much of an office. More like a work shop made of metal shelving, charts and graphs spread out on the makeshift walls. Similar to how John laid out his own research once he was settled somewhere. Typical hunter work space. Robert was finishing up some notations on one of the graphs and he beckoned John closer, holding out a hand in greeting.

"John. It's good to see you."

"Wish I could say the same." John wasn't quite ready to make peace yet, and he kept his hands to his sides.

"Now, don't be like that. There's no need for any antagonism here. We're on the same side."

"Yeah, Somehow I doubt that," John snorted, and shook his head. The memories of those phone calls still bitter in his mind.

"We can help, John," Robert smiled, and attempted to be pleasant. Offering John a seat in front of the desk.

"Yeah? I can help too," John bit out, as he sat. "That kid manning your gate's got a real attitude. Gonna get him killed someday, he's not careful."

Robert chuckled, shaking his head in weary acceptance.

"That's Christian. My cousin Ed's boy. Let's just say that Christian took to some aspects of hunting a little more aggressively than others."

While all this caring and sharing was fun, John wasn't here to shoot the shit with a man he disliked.

"So why do you think I need your help, exactly?"

Robert frowned at the deviation from pleasantries, and John could see the older man struggling to maintain his temper. It took a moment, and then he pasted the kindly grandpa look back on.

"We've been watching you. You and your boys."

Aaannnd, that was exactly the wrong thing to say, rocketing John to his feet and prompting him to pull his Taurus.

"You stay the fuck away from my boys, you hear me? Unless you want my gun up your ass, and not in the fun way, either."

Robert stared at the gun pointed at him and didn't even blink. He shook his head and smiled indulgently, like John was a misbehaving child that required patience.

"I like you, John. It's too bad my brother didn't get to know the real you. He would have liked you too."

"Yeah, it's a real damn shame," John snapped, not lowering his piece. "Why don't we cut the bullshit, and get down to it."

"John, please lower your gun," Robert asked politely, slightly indicating that the younger man look down.

John did, keeping a wary peripheral on Robert, and inwardly swore when he caught sight of the red laser dot aimed directly over his heart. He gritted his teeth and lowered the Taurus as the dot disappeared.

"Now there's that famous charm I've heard so much about," Robert continued conversationally. "Not even a moment of polite conversation between family?"

"You're not family."

"That's where you're wrong. Mary was my niece. And your boys are my brother's grandsons. We are most definitely family."

"This was a mistake," John said quietly, turning around to leave.

"John, don't let that temper of yours get in the way of the information you want," Robert called out to halt his departure. "You know as well as I do that you wouldn't have come here if you had another choice."

John hesitated in the door, took a deep breath, thought about his boys and turned back around.

"Fine. Let's hear it."

When Robert indicated the chair again, John leveled a glare at the man, but he sat down anyway, wondering if he would need the support if what he was going to hear was really that life shattering.

"The day before Samuel died, he called me. The craziest story I ever heard. Mary brought some young hunter home to dinner with her. Had the strangest story."

"And?"

"Said he was hunting a demon. Had a journal full of information on it's victims."

Robert had John at the word demon, but he held his mask of indifference.

"This supposed to impress me? I have journal too."

"Future victims," Robert stressed for emphasis. "Apparently Daddy was psychic. Knew who was gonna deal before it happened."

"A psychic demon hunter," John was now laughing. "Really. Huh. That's funny. I don't remember Samuel being much of a drinker."

"Yeah, I laughed it off too," Robert snapped, losing his battle with civility. "Until the part where my brother and his wife were killed the next day. Wasn't so funny after that."

"Killed?" John shook his head in confusion.

"You're a hunter, John. Never occurred to you that a husband and wife dying like that was more than a little suspicious?"

"Not really," he snapped. Painful memories swirling at the surface. "My parents died together."

The tone in the response hit it's mark and Robert's face softened.

"Yes, I forgot. My apologies. But Samuel and Deanna were murdered."

"I thought Samuel had a heart attack?"

"Not many heart attacks are caused by a knife ripping open your guts and making you bleed out," Robert chuckled humorlessly. "And for the record, Deanna's neck was broken, but it wasn't from any fall."

Shaking his head, John felt like he'd just stumbled upon an entire truckload of crazy.

"Did Mary know?"

"Yes, she did. She's the one that called me to come and make the arrangements. We had enough connections to have the deaths ruled accidental."

"So that's why no public funeral," John replied quietly, realization dawning.

"Samuel and Deanna were hunters, John. You know how that goes."

And he did. He really did. His interest was more than piqued now.

"So what about this psychic demon hunter?"

"I don't know what happened to him," Robert responded, eyes troubled. "He disappeared right after Samuel died. We've been looking for someone that would fit his profile for years, but nothing."

John accepted it, having the same problem. "And the demon?"

"That's where it gets even stranger. Samuel said it was there making deals in the towns around Lawrence."

John's face snapped up, alert and insistent. "Crossroads demon?"

"You would think so, but apparently this particular demon had one trait that I hadn't heard of before. Haven't heard of it since, either."

"Oh, yeah. What's that?" he sneered. "He offer a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni with every deal?"

"No, although that's clever," Robert answered sarcastically. "No. His eyes weren't red or black. They were yellow."

"Yellow? What the fuck does that mean?"

Yellow was a new piece on the board. None of his contacts had ever mentioned yellow eyed demons.

"I don't know. We've been trying to track down information for the past twenty-seven years, and no luck. Nothing in the lore anywhere, and no demon we've caught will talk about it."

"So what does this have to do with Mary, or my boys." John was getting tired of the lack of point.

Robert gave him an exasperated look "John. You're a smart man. Do the math. Never occur to you that Mary died ten years after her parents?"

"You're insane," John snapped, jumping back to his feet. "Are you trying to tell me you think Mary, my Mary, made a deal? You're fucking out of your mind."

"I don't want to believe it either, John," Robert placated, holding up his hands. "I promise you. I loved Mary like she was my own. The idea of her making a deal turns my blood cold. But the facts add up."

"They do, huh?" John shook his head, temper flaring. "And just exactly what do think she made a deal for? She lost both her parents that day. Don't you think if she was signing up for the hellfire rumba she woulda wanted something for it?"

"I don't know what she would have bargained for," Robert replied plaintively. "I truly don't. Samuel said the demon wasn't gunning for souls, just permission."

"Permission for what?"

"I don't know. Samuel didn't know either. Just permission, whatever that means."

John was feeling a wave of nausea rise up into his throat. He wanted to dismiss this whole insane line of thought, but the hardened hunter in him was screaming at him to look at the facts in front of him.

"And you really think it's possible Mary made one."

"I think it's more than possible. Why else do you think I fought you so hard to have a resting place for her?"

"What good did that do?" John barked. "There wasn't anything left to bury."

Robert took a deep breath and grabbed a water bottle on his desk and swallowed a large gulp. He was feeling very old at the moment.

"Samuel kept a lock of her hair in his journal. I buried that. We're hunters going back generations, John. I know a trick or two," he added, seeing the younger man's disbelief.

"I buried her hair in consecrated ground and did a few rituals. It wouldn't save her from damnation if that was where she was headed, but if this demon wasn't giving tongue for souls, I took a chance that it would help her find peace."

John felt himself falling boneless back into his chair, head aching monstrously as he swallowed a thick lump in his throat that was holding back the crest of bile.

"Thank you for that," he muttered quietly. Sincere.

"Like I said, John. We're family," Robert said gently, seeing the lines of pain on the younger man's face in excruciating detail.

So why didn't you tell me about Mary hunting during those phone calls?"

"She begged me not to," Robert answered simply. "She wanted out, and I respected that. She lost her parents to the life, and I couldn't blame her. I helped her tie up a few loose ends with a hunt here and there, but as far as I knew, she stopped sometime after Dean was born."

And John knew that. Maybe even then, he knew that.

"And after she…?"

"I wasn't going to break my word then either," Robert admitted. "No one saw you becoming a hunter, John. I'll be honest and say flat out that I never saw that one coming."

"Mighta been easier if I'd known what the fuck I was looking for." And there was more than a touch of bitterness in the younger man's voice.

"My brother's baby girl was dead, and the only thing she asked was that you never find out about her past. That her family didn't know the things she'd done."

Robert wasn't going to apologize for his actions, then or now. They were what they were.

"Didn't mean we didn't help. Like I said, we've been watching. Made sure you were steered towards the right connections. Did what we could to clean up some of the messes you made early on."

"What?"

"Think about it, John," Robert said obviously. "Didn't you ever wonder why some of your earliest jobs never got traced back to you? You're a good hunter. Nowadays, probably one of the best in the game. But everyone has to learn the hard way. We just made sure that your rookie mistakes got taken care of."

It was too much. All too much, and John closed his eyes as a tornado of crippling mental blows swirled around his mind. Robert got up from his chair and opened one of the metal filing cabinets and withdrew a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and grabbed two glasses.

There was so much more to tell. He had a feeling that this was going to be a long night.

/

There was a resonating sound of finality that had to have been a product of his overactive imagination as Sam closed the slot of the post office drop box. Now beyond his reach, where his second guesses and nerves could no longer stop their journey, three completed college applications were officially on their way.

In light of his school year detente with his father, arguably fragile, but improving, and the swift rebuilding of close bridges with his brother since their fallout and reunion a few weeks earlier, his resolve to strike out on his own had been wavering rather precariously.

Dad was different these days.

Over the Christmas holiday, Sam had seen a side of his father that the boys had only ever really caught glimpses of before. For one, John hadn't touched a drop of alcohol for the whole week he spent with them. Sam couldn't remember a holiday that hadn't ended with his father wasted and wrecked, snoring a whiskey soaked coma on the couch.

Then there was the complete and total absence of any discussion on hunting.

No messy piles of newspaper clippings and photos and handwritten notes spread over every surface. No stacks of lore books, or orders to Sam to copy notes from their endless, musty pages. No secretive phone calls and tight, pinched stares after them.

It was as if Dad had pressed pause on their usual activities, and it was as wonderful as it was disconcerting.

He talked to Sam about school, surprising both of his sons when disclosing a love for his own math and chemistry classes. Sam told him about how his PE teacher was more than subtly pressuring him to go out for basketball, his increasing height putting visions of school championships in the coach's eyes.

Dad had laughed and advised Sam to forget basketball and wait for spring. That baseball was the real sport, and then he proceeded to talk about how he was the captain of his own team, and the thrill of the game.

While the three of them repainted the living room, Dad had shared stories of renovation projects he had done on the house in Lawrence. How Dean's room originally had beautiful hardwood floors, but then had to be carpeted when John was painting on a ladder behind a closed door, and Mary, heavily pregnant and hormonal, had shoved it open and sent John and two gallons of paint sprawling everywhere.

Memories of his time at boot in San Diego, and the brothers-in-arms he found there. The beach and the warm California sun, and beautiful girls in the throes of the heady days of the sexual revolution.

The boys sat at their father's feet, in rapt fascination of previously untold tales, soaking up every scrap of information like sponges, and filing them away as precious possessions.

They watched spaghetti westerns and old war movies, and argued about who would win in a fight. John Wayne or Clint Eastwood? Dad made popcorn on the stove, and scolded them when they threw kernels at each other, right before he shoved a handful down Dean's back and a clump in Sam's hair.

They had an honest-to-God impromptu snowball fight after coming home from the grocery store, and Dad had made them his kitchen sink stew when the boys started sneezing. On New Year's Eve, he told them fond, wistful stories about their grandmother and step-grandfather. They watched the ball drop on TV, and Dad let Sam have a glass of champagne to celebrate at midnight.

Sam was woken up later that night, when Dad sat on his bed to say goodbye. In the semi-darkness, he looked up at his father's face. Dark, warm eyes that weren't stressed or angry, and a playful smile hidden in the neatly trimmed beard and mustache Dad grew every winter. For the first time in years, his father's imminent departure pained him, and with Dad's place at the kitchen table empty the next morning, the house suddenly felt just a tiny bit less like home.

Sam had always had a father, but for the first time, he really felt what it was like to have a Dad, and now that he knew what John was still capable of being, the idea of walking away and leaving that behind was beginning to sour in Sam's mind.

Not that he had changed his decision about fully embracing the life of a hunter.

That wasn't what he wanted, no matter how much he loved his family. By the same token, he was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine a life without them near.

When just a few months earlier, the idea of being on his own, away from the bloody injuries and pee-your-pants terror of The Life, was an intoxicating dream right within his grasp, now the concept of not being around close enough to cover their backs if things went south on a hunt scared him.

Sam found himself more than willing to compromise.

While the family had spent years crisscrossing the country on cases, and the boys were uprooted and moved from town to town with annoying frequency, they did usually stay at least a while in one place at a time because they needed to be in school enough that it didn't raise red flags.

Sam knew that their stays usually frustrated their father, since his focus on the hunt left him a little tunnel visioned on anything that wasn't directly related to it. It was different then. The brothers were children, and while Dad had left them on their own for weeks at a time on occasion, he always returned to them eventually.

Now that Dean was an adult, and Sam getting closer, John didn't need to keep watch. For that matter, Dean didn't need to either. Sam would be eighteen in May. Old enough to be on his own.

More than old enough.

Sam was going to go to college. Of that much, he was sure, but he was also sure that he wasn't going to go somewhere too far away either.

Since Sam started at Holy Rosary, his father had been taking hunts in the neighboring states so the boys could come and back him up if needed. Sam didn't see a reason why that had to change.

In fact, with his ability to schedule his course load so that he could have more days free during the week, and not just on the weekend, Dad could broaden his hunting radius even further. Even more so, Dad could just go where he wanted at any time, and Sam would be available to help with the ones in his driving range, and he was prepared to drive a lot if he needed to.

Dean could still be with Dad full time. As a legal adult, Sam could live on his own, just like every other college kid. Thanks to the two of them, he had his own wheels, and he could easily travel to them after classes and help out. It was a win-win.

He was even willing to go one step further.

Although he would prefer to go to a prestigious university, and his 4.0 GPA and near perfect SAT and ACT scores would almost surely guarantee that he could, he would settle for a school that made his father comfortable to keep the peace.

With that in mind, he planned on applying to Sioux Falls University and Minnesota State University. They were both smaller schools, and not very elite, but they did have the attraction of being close to Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim.

Minnesota State University was roughly thirty miles from Pastor Jim's place in Blue Earth. Even if Dad wasn't willing to let Sam live on campus, and he probably wouldn't, he could still easily commute from the rectory if he had to.

Sioux Falls University was just a few miles from both the salvage yard and the rented house they were currently living in.

Best case scenario, Sam would persuade his father to let him keep renting the house and he could live there while attending classes. Dad and Dean would still have a base to come back to between hunts. The university was a private school, but Sam knew he could earn enough in scholarships and student loans to swing the tuition, rent and living expenses. The house was already well protected, and Sam was comfortable there.

Worst case scenario, Dad would insist on giving up the house, but Sam could still live with Uncle Bobby. That would be okay too, although the idea of having his own place was attractive to a boy yearning for freedom and independence.

This whole scheme would only work if John felt in control, because that was how their father operated. Sam knew that, no matter what plans he came up with, his dad would need to have the final say-so to keep them from butting heads and ruining any chance of coming through this without bloodshed.

Sam didn't want to actively pick a fight with his dad. Didn't want to wind up in a position where he would have to blatantly disobey him either, and create unnecessary turmoil. There had to be a middle ground somewhere, and Sam was determined to find it. Even if it came at the cost of his own lofty aspirations of the Ivy League.

A lifetime of being told by his brother that life would go smoother if Sam just did as he was told and didn't question their father had never been easy for the youngest Winchester to swallow down. It wasn't in his nature to be blindly obedient and unquestioningly subservient. Sam had always needed answers and reasons behind doing anything, and the fact that John wasn't big on giving either frustrated his younger son to the point of near constant rebellion.

Sam didn't want that relationship with his father anymore.

These past few months as a near civilian had opened Sam's eyes to the realities of normal life that had not ever really occurred to him before. Things like having a house and a life lived aboveboard didn't guarantee instantaneous happiness. That making friends and cultivating relationships could be just as painful as not having the chance to have them in the first place.

That his stern and unyielding father, obsessed and compulsively driven, would still take the time to painstakingly carve sigils for days to ensure Sam's safety, even though he wasn't happy about his boys living in the house where he was doing it. That John would live a little rougher on the road than he already did, just so Sam could go to a nice, safe school that cost money that the family didn't really have.

Or that Dad would drive out of his way to spend a few hours whenever he could to help build a car so that Sam could have something reminiscent of the mother that was too painful for John to talk about.

Then there was Sam's realization that his big brother, despite all of the constant teasing and smacking around that was the absolute purview of older brothers everywhere, loved Sam so much that he gave up the life of a full time hunter, the life that he needed like oxygen, without even blinking, just to give his snot nosed kid brother the chance to be normal for once.

Dean never complained about it. Not even once. Not when Sam was ungrateful and grumpy and unappreciative. When he whined about their training, and early curfews and ridiculous bedtimes, and was pissy about hunting on the weekends instead of doing things with his friends. Making faces at the dinners that Dean would put together for them without the benefit of ever having been shown how to cook by anyone, and figuring it all out on his own, like he always did.

Never mind considering those terrible, awful days last month when Sam had thrown every single sacrifice Dean had made for him back in his big brother's face and then crucified him on a hill of derision and judgment in an unimaginable tirade that would have irrevocably broken lesser bonds of brotherhood.

Only for him to come back to Sam, warm and constant and steady, like nothing had even happened. Offering unconditional love and forgiveness when Sam was unworthy of them, and unable to ever repay even a fraction of what Dean had given him an entire lifetime supply of.

For Dad, and especially for Dean, Sam could temper his own dreams.

It would take him four years to earn his degree. Four years is a long time to prove to his family that he was old enough and capable enough to spread his wings and leave the nest for law school. To put himself in a position where he could help them if there was legal trouble, and earn a legitimate living to help support them to make their journey easier and less dangerous.

He wouldn't be abandoning them. Not really. He would still meet up with them anywhere he could, anytime he could. Still have their backs, and be their research monkey via phone and text message when he couldn't be there in person.

He would defer to his father's orders and obey all his rules, like a good son, and a good soldier, even if they were strict and unreasonable and Sam was legally an adult. Because it would be a compromise between them, and Sam wouldn't rock the boat or pick a fight. Would do what he had to do, to make Dad okay with Sam still being somewhere out of his sight and a worry to distract him.

Sioux Falls University and Minnesota State University weren't sexy, as far as degrees go. They wouldn't open a lot of doors for him with the better law schools, but they would go a long way in making sure that none were closed between Sam and his family either, and that was what was more important.

They both offered degrees in Political Science, which is what Sam wanted, and he would study hard and earn top marks, and then ace his LSAT exam and still get to go wherever he wanted to go from there. It wasn't too much to ask.

That had been the plan anyway.

But then his academic adviser had called Sam into his office during his lunch period one day, and that entire plan, the one that Sam had given so much careful thought to, and made his peace with, flew directly out the door.

Mr. Hopkins had meant well.

The kind of man that took his responsibility in guiding the students under his charge very seriously. He pushed them, and encouraged them, and showed them possibilities that they hadn't even known existed. He fought for them, and championed their efforts and badgered admissions offices and financial aid officers until they were deaf from his aggressiveness and willing to give or do anything to get him to leave them alone.

Sam sat in his well appointed office and quietly endured the disappointment in Mr. Hopkins' voice as he discussed Sam's less than ambitious college selections. Surprised that the boy that worked so hard and lobbied so fiercely for letters of recommendation was planning on settling for schools that just about any senior with average grades could attend.

Mr. Hopkins was an alumnus of Stanford University.

His walls were dotted with finely framed diplomas and achievement awards. Photos of pristine, manicured buildings and grounds all blanketed in the warm sunlight of California. He talked to Sam of the superior caliber of academic offerings, and the impeccable credentials of the professors. The vastness of the library that surpassed any expectation that Sam could possibly dream of.

The tuition was high, but he could get Sam the right interviews for scholarships and need based financial aid. Sam had the qualifications. His application would be put on the right desks, and he could spend four happy years in the heart of top notch education with his expenses covered.

When Sam had balked, and politely shared his reservations about his father's anticipated lack of enthusiasm regarding his youngest son traipsing off to California on his own, Mr. Hopkins had assured the boy that no parent, however overly protective, would be anything less than over the moon with pride if Sam came home with a letter offering him a free ride to one of the best universities in the country.

And Sam had believed him, simply because, deep down, he wanted to.

That was why, as Sam walked away from the post office, there were three envelopes, and not just two.

/

For the past two hours, Dean has been tinkering with the motor for the second hand snow blower he bought off of their next door neighbor. Wrist deep in grease and surrounded by a semi-circle of worn parts, he begins to wonder if he should just chuck the whole thing in the trash and continue to shovel by hand.

But the very real concern over how many hours of his young life have already been spent clearing the four steps to the house, the drive-way, the short path to the sidewalk and, of course, the sidewalk itself, not to mention the landlady's house which is part of their rent, prods him to continue.

Let's face it. They live in freakin' South Dakota. It's winter.

Enough said.

The various parts are laid out on the coffee table in the living room, mocking him with their stubborn refusal to cooperate in any way. He doesn't understand it. He can put entire cars together from scratch, but a little piece of shit snow blower is driving him out of his mind. Clearly, there is something evil at work here, and for a moment he contemplates sprinkling it with holy water.

He takes another sip of beer, grits his teeth, pushes his sleeves up above his elbows and dives back in.

He absolutely refuses to let the stupid thing get the better of him.

In the kitchen, Sam is standing at the sink finishing the dinner dishes. Dean pauses a minute to smirk at the prissy blue rubber gloves on his brother's hands as he pulls plates from the rinse water and slots them in the dish drainer. He's seen Sam with ghoul guts and ectoplasm on his hands, but apparently his kid brother has a problem with spaghetti sauce and soap.

The sink is on the far wall of the kitchen, meaning that Sam has his back to his brother in the next room, but Dean knows the kid well enough to correctly guess that the boy is wearing his bitch face. The low volume grumbling assures it, even before he hears the distinctive splash of water that heralds the second attempt to scrub the pot that Dean burned the pasta in.

"Temper, temper, Sammy boy," he teases, taking his mind off of the frustration of being bested by a baby motor by poking the bear that is his broody sibling.

"Bite me, Dean."

"And, language, young man," Dean adds for good measure, ducking as Sam, with lightening speed and Winchester ingrained accuracy, whips a sodden towel at him. He balls up the towel and flings it back towards the counter where it intentionally splats next to the sink, never touching his brother.

Sam's formerly irritated hazel eyes relax and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, recognizing the distraction for what it was. He turns back around and resumes the gooey task, a quietly uttered jerk under his breath that is not so silent that it doesn't prompt its verbal twin bitch from the other room.

Dean and Sam have fallen back into their comfortable banter with an easiness that belies all of the hurt and harsh words that had been between them a few weeks ago. In true form, Dean has pushed them way down deep inside, probably to be filed for later consideration the next time he's feeling like shit about something, but for now he's just happy to have them on companionable terms again.

They are brothers after all, and even brothers that are as close as the two of them are bound to fight occasionally. Especially as Sam has inherited more than just his hair color and dimples from their father. He possesses John's temper in spades and also his father's determination to dig in his heels when he thinks he is right.

Fortunately, Dean loves his little brother just as much as he loves their Dad, and nothing either of them ever do will change that fact, or his unconditional willingness to forgive them and always give his all for them. Evidenced by Dean's creative redecoration of Sam's school.

Sam turns around slightly and sneaks a glance into the living room. Dean is quietly sitting on the couch, the guts of the prehistoric mechanical beast still splayed out in every direction. But his brother's face is calm and his eyes are dancing with humor, as if enjoying a private joke. With a surgeon's precision, he picks through the little pieces of metal arranged on the drop cloth, his left knee bopping along in tune with whatever classic rock song is playing in his head at the moment.

Sam lets a little chuckle escape and Dean's mouth smirks a bit more as he reaches for another screwdriver. He doesn't turn his head to meet Sam's stare. Just sits there and tinkers and the younger boy doesn't realize how long he has been watching until Dean speaks.

"That's right, Sammy. Drink in the awesomeness that is me."

Dean snickers cockily, and Sam knows that he is being teased again. He blushes a little at getting caught gawking and is thankfully saved by the tinny ring of the eighties style phone on the wall.

Dean laughs to himself, having just busted his little brother for the peeping tom act. Not that he minds, really. He misses the days when Sammy regularly looked at him like that.

When he was only a tiny thing, Sam watched him with that intense big-eyed wonder, as if Dean was his own personal superhero. Dean remembers the days of strutting around like a peacock, his own little chest puffed out proudly, as his baby brother hung on his every word and gesture. At one point, Dean could have told the little boy that he could lasso the moon for him, and Sammy would have believed him.

If he is honest with himself, he would have to admit how much he is still hurt by the words that his little brother threw at him during that whole debacle last month. But, he has never been particularly honest with anyone except for their father, and then with Sam once the cat was out of the bag about what John really did during his near constant "business trips".

He certainly has never extended the same courtesy with himself.

Especially when life in denial is so much less painful.

So he has fallen back into the comfort of light bantering and teasing with his rapidly growing sibling. His easy acquiescence provides the necessary fuel to keep their relationship humming along smoothly.

He knows that Sammy is sorry, truly sorry for what he said.

The kid had been walking on eggshells around him for weeks, taking extra pains to be helpful around the house, never complaining about Dad's training schedule or extra studies. Never complained about how strict his abbreviated grounding had been, or even the fact that Dean took his allowance away for a month in reparations for the court fine. Most of all, he had been practically tripping over his canoe-sized feet to show appreciation for anything that Dean did for him.

It's clearly overcompensation and they both know it. Dean just wonders if the remorse stems from his brother feeling bad about hurting him or more because a kink in their relationship threatens the borderline normal life that they have created here.

He doesn't allow himself to ponder on that particular distinction for very long.

It wouldn't matter anyway in the end. Regardless of any verbal daggers that Sam has thrown at him, Dean would never think to unbalance the carefully crafted life that he has created for them for these precious few months. He made his little brother a promise and, where his family is concerned, Dean always keeps his promises.

And because Dean is a truly awesome big brother, he even engineered some payback for those little asshats at school who were trying their best to make Sammy's life miserable and publicly humiliate him. Dean wasn't having any of that shit at all, and they had paid for it.

Because no one fucks with Dean Winchester's little brother and gets away with it.

As soon as Sam had given him the full puppy dog eyes and Dean heard the undercurrent of misery in the kid's voice, he had gone to work. Caleb took care of the recruiting details and the whole thing was carried out with military precision.

It wasn't quite as much as Dean wanted to do. If he had his way, both of those little asshole jocks would have found themselves staring down the barrel of Dean's pearl gripped Colt and getting the living shit kicked out of them in new and creative ways.

Dad put a stop to that line of thought really quickly, unfortunately.

That night, after fences were mended, and Sammy was sent to bed, Dad had seen the look in Dean's eyes while they shared a beer.

"Keep your hands off of those boys, Dean." John's eyes are steely, and he's not messing around here.

"C'mon, Dad. You can't tell me that they don't deserve it," Dean points out, as he sips from his bottle.

He can tell from the minute lapse in his dad's disapproving glare that John does in fact think that they deserve it, but admitting to that out loud makes him a bad adult and poor role model. Honestly, if this was a case where they were splitting town in a day or two, John might just be helping Dean shine up a matching pair of brass knuckles to exhibit his displeasure.

"Your brother can handle this himself, kiddo. You don't need to fight all of his battles for him."

"Sammy doesn't have the sheer awesome creativity to come up with revenge, Dad," Dean points out, cocking an eyebrow and grinning widely.

"He'll be fine," Dad assures him, pulling out his journal to make notes. "They're just kids, and you aren't going to lay one finger on them, or you and me are gonna dance, you hear me?"

That makes Dean spit his beer out, and John scowls at the dribbles of saliva mixed with El Sol that now dot the page he was working on.

"Dad," Dean protests, eyes wide. "C'mon. I'm a little old for that, don't you think?"

John grabs a napkin and mops up the mess, leveling a no nonsense glare at his firstborn.

"I think if you start beating up a couple of high school students, I'm going to treat you like one. You copy?"

"Yes, sir. Copy that. Loud and clear," he snaps out smartly, as his ass twinges with repressed memories.

His father has a look on his face that says Yeah, I'm probably just fucking with you, but do you really want to risk it?

And no, as a matter of fact, Dean doesn't.

John nods and tries to get back to his notes when Dean clears his throat.

"But, let's say, for argument's sake, that they just happen to experience something unfortunate in a completely non-violent kind of way," he hedges, averting his eyes when his father looks back up. "No harm, no foul, right?"

John hesitates, knowing how bad it is to encourage his oldest when the mood for mischief strikes, but he's still pretty unhappy about what Sammy's been through himself, so he sighs.

"I can't very well bust you for something I don't hear about, now can I?"

"No, sir," Dean replies, smirking behind his beer bottle. "Silence is golden, Dad. We all know that."

Tonight's easy verbal volley with Sam has lifted some of the ache from Dean's chest, his smile, as he fiddles with the motor, is genuine. When the phone rings, his heart stops for just a fraction of a second as it always does with incoming calls. Holding his breath, he hopes that their father is not in trouble somewhere while Dean sits in the warm living room playing happy family.

Only a handful of people have their landline number, which they have because the school requires it, and most of the others are not the kind to call just to shoot the breeze. So he watches as Sammy grabs the handset from the wall and answers it, trying not to detect the minuscule lilt of breathy fear that has also inserted itself in his brother's greeting.

"Hello?"

When he watches Sam become decidedly uncomfortable, he jumps to his feet, but then the kid scowls at him and waves him off, pointing at his own chest to let Dean know that the call is for him and it's not any sort of fresh hell that their damaged family will have to manage.

Dean raises an eyebrow, curious as to the identification of the party on the other end of the line, because everyone they really talk to has their cell numbers. An after school hours caller on the landline is a first.

"Hey Alex. What's up?"

Alex?

To the best of Dean's knowledge, they don't know an Alex. No hunter goes by that name and it's not as if they have any third cousins running around to touch base with. He mentally runs the list of boys in Sam's class and falls short there as well.

Curiouser and curiouser.

It's not that Dean is opposed to giving the little twerp any privacy. Hell, he wouldn't have wanted anyone breathing down his neck at that age. He just doesn't like any unknown quantities in their inner circle. He's makes it a point to know who Sam associates with and, with Dad's mandate on the terms of their stay here, Dean takes that responsibility very seriously.

But he decides not to press the issue just yet. There will be time to grill Sam after the call and, stubborn or not, he will talk. Dean sits back down and resumes his tinkering, keeping one ear on the side of the conversation that he can hear. He is already picking through proven methods of interrogating his little brother.

Sam has a particularly sensitive tickle spot below his left ribs and he folds like a cheap suit when big brother unleashes the spider fingers.

"Yeah, I heard about it. I..uh..don't think I'll be able to."

Pause.

"No. I..um..I can't. I...uh..spend time with my Dad then."

Dean throws his brother a quick glance. Sam smolders from the undue amount of eavesdropping and turns slightly, putting his back to his brother even as he starts to wrap himself in the extra long coiled phone cord. Watching the kid's tense bristling, Dean frowns, hoping that whoever this Alex is, they aren't trying to get Sam involved in something stupid or dangerous.

Dean's had enough of that for a while.

A routine interest in his little brother's affairs ratchets itself up a notch and now Dean is determined to get to the bottom of the conversation. Sam doesn't respond well to a machete approach to information gathering, so he plays it cool, leaning back into the couch cushion and casually sipping at his beer.

"Yeah, okay. See you later."

Sam unwinds himself from the phone cord and hangs up, moving back to the sink with a little more speed and determination than he normally exhibits towards finishing his chores. He picks up the discarded Brillo pad and starts to scrub at the burnt pot with a vengeance. Dean stares at him for a second and then downs the rest of the beer. He gets up from the couch and strolls into the kitchen, discarding the empty bottle into the paper carrier on the floor by the trashcan.

Sam works over the pot as if he has never seen anything so interesting, pointedly ignoring his brother standing two feet away from him as Dean opens the refrigerator door and peers inside as if he has all the time in the world.

Scrub Scrub Scrub

"Remind me to pick up eggs tomorrow. We're almost out," Dean says casually as he rifles through the shelves.

A short grunt from Sam is the only acknowledgment he gets, the frenzied scraping of the steel wool against metal grating on his nerves. He pulls out another beer and closes the door, flipping the cap off with the edge of his ring and turning to lean back against the counter top as he takes a sip.

Scrub Scrub Scrub

"So, who's Alex?"

A pause, lasting just a fraction of a second, betrays Sam's unease over the question, but he pushes past it and renews his efforts with a vengeance.

Scrub Scrub Scrub

"Just someone from school."

Dean frowns and shakes his head slightly at the vague answer. Sammy is acting far too nervous over the call for it to have been anything that innocent.

"What did he want?"

Sam turns towards him and scowls. "None of your business, Dean," he snaps.

At Dean's withering glare, he backs down and returns to the pot. Patience wearing thin, Dean waits another half a minute before pushing the issue.

"Sam," he growls in the voice that their father uses and which leaves no room for debate.

His little brother huffs, clearly annoyed that he has to explain himself, and Dean silently concedes that his father is right in that they have allowed Sam to become a little spoiled. At this point in the conversation with John, Dean would be spilling his guts about every detail of the phone conversation as well as confessing to the size of the porno stash underneath his bed.

Sam's teenager pride demands that he posture a bit more before caving, and he does so until the glare in his big brother's eyes threatens to blind him. He throws the pot back in the sink and crosses him arms, his whole body bristling with attitude.

"The drama club at my school is doing a winter production of Our Town. Alex called to ask me if I was going to try out for a part."

Dean raises an eyebrow in surprise. It's such an innocent vanilla answer that he can't help wondering if there is more than Sam is letting on about. A more discomforting question is whether or not the kid is flat out lying to him. Last month's episode is not that far distant in the past that Sam can be taken fully at his word right now.

"That's it?" he asks incredulously and Sam sighs, still affronted, and nods.

Not persuaded, Dean channels John and fixes Sam with a stern look, crossing his own arms and showing his kid brother that he means business.

"So, if I were to go into the school tomorrow, I could ask that cute blond secretary and she would tell me all about this play, right?"

Sam throws him a scowl, his hazel eyes wide and flashing with anger. He rips off the ridiculous gloves and hurls them to the floor before stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Above his head, Dean can hear the kid banging down the hallway and into his room. He is about to follow and verbally flay the little bitch for running off on him when he realizes that there is an absence of Sammy's trademark door slamming.

So he waits.

A minute later, the stomping returns in full force and Sam bangs down the stairs, the ancient boards underneath his feet groaning from the abuse. The boy's face is flushed a deep red and he is oozing hostility out of every pore as he thrusts a lime green sheet of paper into Dean's chest before resuming his crossed arm stance.

Dean grabs the crushed paper and smooths out the wrinkles as he reads. Sure enough it is an announcement of the play and he skims through the information, his eyes resting on the words listing an Alex Logan as the assistant casting director. He feels slightly guilty for having doubted his brother's honesty, but he is still not convinced that he has been told the whole story. Sam's tension and mannerisms are clearly hiding something.

"Okaaaay. So, is this something that you want to do?" he asks, because, really, he has no other idea as to what he should say here.

"No," Sam snaps, a little too quickly, before turning around and bending to pick up his gloves from the floor.

He puts them back on and returns to the sink to finish cleaning the pot. Dean frowns and clears his throat, wondering what it is that has his brother so on edge about a stupid school play.

"C'mon, Sam. All you little geek boys like putting on costumes and prancing around," he teases, trying to break the tension in the room. "It could be fun. Why don't you think about it?"

Sam's shoulders stiffen as he puts the pot in the dish rack and pulls the plug out of the drain, watching the soapy water whirl around as it empties. He is quiet as he grabs a sponge and mops out the sink before pulling his gloves off and staring out the window in front of him into the darkness of the winter night.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is quiet, concerned.

Sam lets out a heavy breath, his lips pursed into the scowl.

"Forget it," he spits out. "Practices are on the weekends, and Dad said I was home on the weekends unless I'm with you."

Dean's head shoots up and frowns in confusion. "When did he tell you that?"

This piece of information is news to Dean and he wonders why neither of them have mentioned it to him. Dean should have been told if he's going to be expected to enforce it. He fumes, knowing that if John is not careful, Sam will choke on the leash around his neck and struggle that much harder to escape them both.

"When he came in to say goodbye to me before he left."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean utters quietly, reaching out squeeze his brother's shoulder. "I didn't know."

Sam recognizes the honesty in his brother's tone and words and finally lifts his head up, peeking out at Dean from underneath his shaggy fringe of hair.

"It's okay. It doesn't matter."

Dean grabs his other shoulder and gives the kid a little shake. "Hey. It does matter, Sam. If you want to do this, I'll figure out a way to make it work. Don't worry about it."

Sam just shakes his head sadly, a rueful smile on his face. "Yeah, sure." He pulls away from his brother's grasp.

"I'm not interested, so you don't have to bother." After another few seconds of silence, Sam turns away from his brother's probing stare. "Can I go now? I have homework."

Dean nods and watches as the boy shuffles out of the room. There is more going on here, and he is going to find out what the whole story is. He grabs his beer from the counter and downs it, sad that the comfortable mood of earlier in the evening has just been shattered with one stupid phone call.

/

You're saying that all wrong, you know."

Sam looks up from his Latin book to glare at his brother. Dean is sitting across from him at the small coffeehouse table and reading Guns and Ammo.

"You can't even read it, Dean," Sam replies testily, confident in his own language skills and reminding his brother of one of his few failings as a hunter. "How do you know I'm saying it wrong?"

Dean glances up from his magazine and cocks an eyebrow, giving Sam an inpenetrable stare.

"I can read the words just fine, smartass," Dean snaps back. "What's more important, I can pronounce them correctly. An exorcism isn't going to work if you put the emphasis on the wrong syllable of a word."

He pauses to let his reprimand sink it, which it does when Sam scowls and buries his head back into the book.

"Try again."

Sam takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his temper in check and refrain from popping his brother in the mouth. Because it's mid afternoon, and the coffeehouse is empty, they have taken the opportunity to practice Sam's Latin exorcism skills. Their father called to check on them last night, and he'll be expecting Sam to have completed the practice assignment that was set for him.

Sam would rather just work on his physics homework.

At his brother's insistent prodding, Sam picks the rite up again and struggles through the first few passages that are annoyingly difficult, even with his mastery of the language itself, while Dean listens. He is halfway through when the glass door swings open and a girl's voice calls out to him.

"Hey, Sam!"

The classical language's words stick in his throat and he drops the book like it was on fire, scrunching his eyes up in discomfort as his face flushes a bright red and retrieves it surreptitiously.

Damn

The girl's greeting has caught Dean's attention and he watches her bounce in and approach his visibly rattled brother. She's cute, in a wholesome, book smart sort of way. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back in a floppy ponytail that seems to work well with her face and she has enormous ice blue eyes that give Sam's puppy dog orbs a run for their money. Her body is petite, but she apparently has the strength to carry around a bulky stack of report cover boxes fairly easily.

Sam is still blushing furiously, but he manages to lift his head up enough to croak out a quick greeting. Dean has not seen the little geek this uncomfortable in ages.

"Hi."

The girl smiles widely, showing off perfect white teeth, and she deposits her boxes on the table that Sam is working at. Making her way over to his side, she peers over his shoulder and tries to get a glimpse of the book he is hunched over, as he attempts to hide the title.

"So, what are you reading today?"

Sam shifts slightly in his seat, clearing his throat awkwardly. For a minute, Dean thinks that maybe this girl is some over-rambunctious admirer and starts to intercept until he sees a sheepish grin cross his brothers face. He realizes quickly that Sam definitely likes the bubbly brunette and backs off.

"It's um..Latin," Sam answers quietly and even though he is not looking at the girl, his face pleads for understanding.

Fortunately, Dean seems to be right in that she is a female version of his geek boy brother. She squeals and her face is almost stretched to the breaking point by her smile.

"Latin? That is so neat! I'm terrible at languages. I didn't even want to try something that hard. What made you interested?"

Sam shifts in his seat again and throws Dean a nervous look. His big brother shrugs and nods, giving him the go-ahead.

"My Dad is kind of a...um...renaissance man. He insisted on me learning it."

The girl looks clearly impressed and she beams at Sam. "That is so cool. Your Dad sounds awesome."

Out of sheer habit, Sam bristles at the praise of his father and it rankles on Dean's nerves that even now Sam can't be grateful for something that John had taken pains to teach them. Annoyed, he decides that Sam's free pass from humiliation is over with that slight on their dad. He scowls and clears his throat loudly making Sam stiffen, knowing that his brother is now expecting an introduction.

The girl's blue eyes cloud over with irritation, as if Dean is the rudest thing she has ever seen, forgetting that she has thrown her stuff all over the magazine he was reading, and she levels him with a glare until Sam speaks.

"Uh..this is my brother Dean," he says quietly, jerking his chin in his brother's direction. He pauses for a second and forces the next few words out, already knowing what the fallout of them is going to be. "Dean, this is my friend, Alex."

And with those few words, it all comes together.

Dean smirks at his little brother who is desperately trying to hide behind his shaggy fringe. He glances up at Alex, who is now smiling at him since he has been identified as the big brother that Sam is constantly talking about.

"It's nice to meet you Alex," he greets her, in his friendliest voice. The one saved for grandmothers and trusted contacts of John, and not the one he uses when he is making a move on a pretty girl.

For which Sam is truly thankful.

Sam's gratitude isn't long lasting. He watches as Dean cocks his head to the side, as if he is putting puzzle pieces together, and Sam already knows what his brother is going to say before the words even come out of his mouth.

"So, are you the Alex that's working on that play?" Dean's voice is polite and inquisitive and Sam recognizes it as the con man voice that he uses on the job. For her part, Alex perks up even more and she nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I am. Actually, that's why I'm here. I saw Sam through the window and I was hoping to get him to change his mind about tryouts on Tuesday."

Sam is now staring down at the floor, hoping that it will miraculously open up and swallow him whole. He hears his brother snicker and steels himself for more embarrassment.

"Really?" Dean raises an eyebrow and gifts Alex with the smile that always gets his way with pretty girls. "What makes you think Sammy boy would be a good actor?"

Alex's perkiness is contagious and she gushes over.

"Oh, well, because when our class read the play in English Lit last month, Sam did a super job with the part of George. It would be so awesome to have him do it up on the stage. Everyone thinks so."

"Everyone?" Dean asks, barely able to keep a straight face, especially when Alex nods with such energy that her ponytail practically bounces off of her head.

He turns to his little brother who seems to be mouthing words to himself and realizes, after a few seconds, that Sam is attempting to exorcise him. He is seconds away from losing his composure and busting out laughing, so he turns away from them under the guise of checking phone messages.

Dean listens as Alex continues attempting to persuade Sam to try out. Sam keeps refusing, but Dean knows his little brother and can hear the reluctance in his voice. It's beginning to sound more and more like this play is really something that his little brother would like to do. He stays out of it though, until he hears Sam respond again, this time with a crack in his voice that generally is a precursor to him losing his temper.

"I really can't, Alex. Look, I'd like to, but I have the AP reviews on Tuesdays and my Dad has me doing things on the weekends."

When Dean turns back around, he can see that Alex is not the kind of girl that takes no for an answer. And he is also pretty sure that it is an answer that Sam doesn't really want to give her. He listens while she calls bullshit on the AP studies and reminds him that he can do the reviews during the study hall that she shares with him, and can't help smiling at the way she stands her ground.

"Yeah, well, my Dad still won't let me do it, so it doesn't matter."

Dean hates to hear the defeat in his brother's voice as he makes that admission.

It's true that John will probably be fairly pissed by the idea of Sammy not coming to the meet ups for a while, but Dean is determined that this is the year that Sam gets to do normal things. He still hasn't forgiven his father for confining Sam to the house without talking to him about it. He doesn't expect Dad to confer with him regarding Sam's restrictions, but if he is supposed to enforce them, he would at least like the courtesy of being informed.

He looks over to his brother, ignoring the bouncy girl.

"If you want to do this, Sammy, I'll get Dad to agree to it. I told you that."

Dean's voice is clear and strong and it isn't hard for Sam to believe that his big brother will do exactly what he says he will.

Sam doesn't say anything, but when he lifts his head from the table, he is once again the little boy that thought his brother could lasso the moon and Dean's heart skips a beat with forgotten affection.

Alex squeals again and she grabs her boxes, thanking Dean and telling Sam that she expects to see him at the tryouts. She waves goodbye and bounces out of the coffeehouse, leaving both Winchester boys exhausted from her boundless energy.

"You really like her, don't you?"

Sam mutters a quiet yeah and Dean knows that he will do whatever he has to do to persuade their father to release Sam from their weekend obligations until this play is over.

His brother only has a few more months of normal left, and he's still smarting from the whole Kristin debacle. If the kid is willing to put himself back out there, with a girl that is decidedly more his style, Dean's going to make it happen.

/

Dean is an angry sleeper.

With a gun under his pillow, and an itchy trigger finger, besides.

That's why Sam doesn't even consider trying to get payback for his own rude birthday awakening last May. Holding a plate containing a Swiss Roll with a candle plopped in the middle in one hand, and a peace offering of a mug of hot coffee in the other. He doesn't bother either knocking on the door loudly or quietly sneaking in, simply walking in casually and speaking in a conversational voice.

"Dean, it's your brother. Don't shoot. Everything's okay."

There is an expected half-snore/half grunt from the general direction of his brother's lump in the bed, before the lumps moves, groans and finally pulls itself out from the tangle of blankets.

"Sammy? What's going on?"

Sam snorts and climbs on the bed, balancing the plate and mug as he folds his legs underneath him.

"It's your birthday, jerk. Happy Birthday."

Dean's eyes are bleary, but he smiles, rubbing his face and sitting up straighter. He sees the steaming coffee and holds out his hands like a grubby, needy toddler.

"Gimme."

Sam rolls his eyes and hands it over before using the lighter he liberated from Dean's coat pocket to ignite the single candle in the cake. When it's lit, Sam hands that over too, and Dean smirks before blowing it out.

"Whadja wish for?"

Dean plucks the candle out and splits the cake apart, handing his brother half.

"None of your business, Nosy Nancy. Eat your chocolate."

Sam smirks, but keeps quiet. If his brother wants to share at some point, he will. They don't talk as they eat, and Dean slurps from his cup while Sam fidgets. He waits until his brother is done with the pastry and then pulls the plate away and leaps to his feet.

"Okay, get ready to go."

Confused, Dean looks at his brother, looks outside at the darkness, and then looks at his brother again with a scowl on his face.

"Go where? It's ass o'clock. Get back to bed. You have school in a few hours."

Sam's not taking no for an answer and, to prove it, he drags Dean's blankets off the bed, ignoring his sibling's squawk, and lets them crumple to the floor.

"No, we have a six hour drive ahead of us, and we need to get moving. You're gonna call me out with a family emergency when the office opens."

"Six hours?" Dean shakes his head, like he can't believe that his brother is serious, and scrunches his eyes closed. "Dude..."

"Don't make me drag you into the shower myself, Dean," Sam yells over his shoulder as he heads out to the hall.

"As if you could, princess," his brother snarks back, but Sam can hear him getting up and moving anyway.

Less than thirty minutes later, they are both showered, dressed and hair gelled. Dean is on his third cup of coffee trying to tamp down on his desire to make himself an only child. He's still annoyed about being pulled from his warm bed when there is nothing actively trying to kill them at the moment, and Sam's insistence on secrecy is getting on his nerves.

When they head out to the driveway, Sam finally stops moving long enough to frown and run a hand through his hair, and Dean's eyes roll in frustration. It's freezing out and his nostril hairs are turning into tiny little icicles.

"What now?"

Letting out a deep sigh, his little brother ponders for a moment and looks between their cars.

"Okay. So, I planned on driving us, because it's your birthday, and I thought that maybe you would want to be the one having your ass chauffeured for a change."

Sam's posturing and honestly perturbed.

"But then I was wondering if it would be more of a gift for you to have some carnal drive time with the Impala. What do you prefer?"

Dean chuckles and thinks for a minute, deciding on whether or not the better fun would be poking Sam with a metaphorical stick.

"I think I would rather be the one driving your car," he says mischievously, getting rewarded with Sam's look of horror as the realization dawns on him.

"Wait. You...what?" Dean's little brother is stuttering and freaked, and it's honestly adorable.

Dean lets the little brat hyperventilate a minute, and then grins, pulling out the Impala's keys from his coat pocket. He dangles them and motions Sam towards the passenger seat.

"I'm always the driver, Sammy. Just point me in the right direction."

They stop once for gas and coffee. Once for an excessively large bag of greasy breakfast burritos and coffee, and then again just a few miles later It's my birthday, and I'm a growing boy, Sammy for two dozen Boston cream donuts and more coffee.

At this point, Dean has the radio cranked all the way up and he's bopping along in the driver's seat to the caffeinated and sugary buzz and heavy bass like a kindergartner off his Ritalin. Dean's phone rings twice. Once from the school confirming Sam's parental approved absence from classes, and then Dad, wishing his firstborn a happy birthday, with an apology that he wasn't with them, but with promises that he'll see the boys soon.

Even with all of the stops and interruptions, they still make it to Deadwood, South Dakota before ten a.m.

Dean's eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree when he realized where they were headed, and Sam grinned, happy that his brother was pleased with their destination. Dean loves anything and everything about the old west. From cowboys to gold trails to saloons and gambling. He loves it all.

He runs around town like a tween drunk on the Mickey Mouse Magic Kool-Aid at Disney, dragging his little brother along from attraction to attraction. They head to the Old Style Saloon, and watch the re-enactment of Wild Bill Hickok's demise. Spend an hour or so traipsing through the various museums with all of the old paraphernalia that makes Dean's face glow. The hit the Broken Boot Gold Mine tour and pan for gold.

They spend enough time in cemeteries, but Sam's not going to be a killjoy today when Dean pulls out his EMF meter to check for anything hinky at Calamity Jane's resting place at Mount Moriah. Finally, they hit the casinos, because Sam thought ahead and brought his fake ID. No one really bothers to check anyway. Dean's so happy to be in his element that his big shit eating grin has even the faded skinned regulars, that barely see sunlight as they while away their lives on the slots, smiling.

Dean's good humor ups his gaming skills at the poker tables and, even with the house edge, he pulls in a respectable pile of cash. When they head out to take advantage of the advertised best steak in town, Dean pays for the two of them to get plates with slabs of meat as big as Sam's face. The younger brother eyes his meal warily, preferring something not quite so beefy, and has to avert his gaze from his brother's nearly pornographic mastication across the table and lusty grunts of pleasure as he chokes it down.

Although it's Dean's birthday, and Sam has been saving from odd jobs shoveling snow for the neighbors, Sam isn't allowed to pay for anything. Dean assures him that he's just enjoying the day, and Sam is pretty sure that his brother feels a bit guilty about taking Sam's allowance away for a while, even if it was justified.

It's almost five o'clock by the time they get ready to leave. They already have a six hour drive back, and Sam has told his brother that they still have one stop to make before reaching home. A couple of hours into their return trip, Sam directs him off an exit and they ride for a little while longer until they reach the center of a pleasant looking village. It takes a few minutes for Sam to get his bearings enough to figure out the right turn, but when they do, Dean just about has a heart attack behind the wheel.

"Sweet Mother of Mercy!"

Molly's Pie Diner is a fantastically retro fifties era tube of shiny chrome and neon signs. There are a healthy number of cars in the parking lot, which is always a good sign. Dean jumps out of the Impala and practically hops to the front door in excitement, eyes wide as saucers.

The interior smells amazing.

All warm fruits and fresh pastry and deep earthy chocolate, mingled with the sizzle of burgers and fresh cut french fries. There are racks along all of the walls, some refrigerated, with an assortment of pies that fill Dean's beady little eyes with desire. Sam holds in his laughter, and secretly hopes that he doesn't have to pick his brother up from the floor from some sort of embarrassingly reverential supplication, and Dean thanks every deity he can think of for finally guiding him home to the mother ship.

They're shown to a clean booth and place their initial orders after Sam assures the slightly terrified waitress that no, my brother was only kidding when he asked for one of everything. Sam loads up on the coffee, because he has a sneaking suspicion that he will be doing some of the drive back after Dean gorges himself into a fruit and whipped cream induced food coma.

One hour, and an absolutely obscene amount of plates later, Dean cheerfully takes the six to-go bags, Sam shaking his head in disbelief, and heads back to the car. Dean has a slightly queasy look on his face as he gets behind the wheel, but he belches and it passes as he starts the ignition.

"Dude, how did you find this place? Fucking awesome."

"It's called the internet, Dean," Sam answers, smiling fondly as the head back towards the highway.

It's almost two in the morning when they finally get home. To Sam's surprise, his brother managed to drive the entire way, pie busting belly and all.

"We are so not running in three hours," Dean mutters as he trudges up the stairs.

"That's okay with me," Sam laughs, rubbing his eyes and looking forward to his soft bed.

They cart the bags of souvenirs and pies into the kitchen and Sam shrugs when Dean throws him a questioning look about where they are going to store all of the pastry. The fridge is neither empty nor exceptionally large.

Sam stops his brother before they head upstairs, grabbing a slim, square shaped, poorly wrapped package from the computer alcove and handing it to Dean.

"Here. This is your real gift."

Dean takes it, a small grin peeking around the corners of his mouth, because it's pretty obvious what it is. When he does get the wrapping paper off, his eyes go huge, because he wasn't expecting this.

For Christmas, one of Dad's gifts to Dean had been a turntable. Because while Sam and the rest of the civilized world live in an age of CDs, Dad and Dean are firmly stuck in the seventies, and Sam's brother loves him some classic vinyl. Dean's eyes scan over the pristine album cover of the debut Led Zeppelin and, for a second, Sam wonders if big brother is about to weep from joy.

"Sammy," Dean stutters, voice heavy with emotion. "Where did you get this?"

Sam laughs softly, not because he wants to make fun of his brother, but because Dean's happiness makes Sam happy too.

"Dude. In-ter-net."

Fortunately, Dean laughs as well, and he puts the album on the kitchen table next to the pies and holds his arms out.

"C'mere, kiddo."

Sam goes willingly into his brother's hug, and he returns it with equal affection.

"Thanks, Sammy. I love it." And you

"Yeah, don't mention it." Love you too, big brother