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.

23. Late January 2002-Early Feb 2002

A/N: I have a wonderful new beta mak2018 who is being such a great help with editing and brainstorming! Big thanks to her for all the time she has put into going over this chapter with me :) Thanks to everyone who is reading and especially reviewing. If you are still enjoying the story please let me know!

/

It might come as a surprise to anyone or anything that came into contact with them, but the cold, hard truth was that neither John nor Dean Winchester were inherently violent people.

In fact, to be able to do the job that they did every day with the skill and efficiency that it often required it meant that both men had to continually fight against their basic nature.

It was a little bit easier for John. He had long ago shed his subconscious reservations about employing physical violence during the war, when every day was a matter of life and death

He was just a good kid from a nice Midwestern college town. Until he was 15 the only exposure he had to civil unrest was the history lesson he was taught in 9th grade social studies about the Civil War era Lawrence Massacre.

Later, as he made his way through high school in the turbulent last years of the 60s, it was impossible to ignore what was happening around him. From the race riots at his own school Lawrence High, to the arson fire of the Kansas Union, to all of the protests and vigilantism regarding Vietnam on the campus of KU where his grandfather had recently retired. Just feeling too old and saddened to remain at the school he loved.

John had always been relatively apolitical and his opinions on the war itself had no bearing on his eventual decision to join up. His purpose in enlisting in the marines to be of service to his fellow man. While he wasn't a fool and understood perfectly well what was going to be expected of him when he donned the uniform, like many others John was wholly unprepared for the omnipresent saturation of combat that immediately engulfed him the minute he stepped off the chopper in country.

Necessity and his own survival instinct demanded that he quickly embrace his new situation, and so he had. Later, when personal tragedy had him start hunting, that old feeling resurfaced with a vengeance and it served to turn him into a killing machine once again. The part of his personality that demanded he protect others getting flipped on inside of him like a switch.

He didn't like what it turned him into, but he did it, because that was just the person he was.

With Dean it was different.

Like his father, Dean wasn't a kid that thrived on violence naturally. He much preferred to seek pleasure if given his choice. You would never know it if you saw him with a machete in his hands on a hunt, but Dean would always rather be a lover instead of a fighter.

There were a lot of other things John would have preferred doing with his 7-year-old son the day he taught Dean how to throw a punch.

It was a beautiful, sunny, and warm afternoon in early June. They could have been fishing in the little creek down the dirt road from the cabin, an hour outside Boise, that Travis had let them use for a month.

Behind the cabin was a slightly overgrown yard that John had cleared with a push mower their first day to provide a safe place for Sammy to run around. John's little boy was an energetic and curious newly 3-year-old who wouldn't shy away from grabbing a stray gopher snake hidden in taller grass. The yard would have been an excellent area to play a game of catch with his firstborn.

Instead, John had determined that Dean was now of a sufficient age to learn personal offense and defense. He already knew that his young son could handle the lightweight Sig that he had placed in those little hands a few months earlier at Singer's place.

And damn if Dean didn't bullseye every single target!

John had eventually picked his slack jaw up from the ground long enough to heap praise on the child for his accomplishments which left Dean blushing and beaming because nothing pleased him more than his dad's approval.

But that was different from throwing a punch.

To Dean the firearms practice was just like playing a game in the arcade. It was fun and it made him feel grown up. He was shooting at inanimate targets and no one was getting hurt which was important to Dean because he hated to see anyone in pain, mindful of all the times John had come home injured.

The boy was a natural, just like his dad had been and John was so very, very proud of him. Even with the horrific observation of just how tiny his boy was when he was learning to handle a weapon that could be used to end a life when he should have just been running around with other boys playing with cap guns.

So to ask his people-pleasing child to intentionally wound someone?

He could tell that Dean didn't really want to do it. John's boy who had been an adventurous and sturdy little bruiser as a toddler had lost much of his high spirits since the death of his mother. He was a quieter child now. Gentle and cautious around his baby brother. Hovering over Sammy like the world's tiniest mix of guard dog and mother hen.

But Dean also desperately craved his father's attention and approval, and it was that desire that John found himself ruthlessly exploiting during those days at the cabin much to his own personal shame.

At first Dean had been reluctant to make any kind of aggressive movement towards the father that he looked up to with all the idolized worship of a superhero, lest it be misconstrued as any form of disrespect which was already something Dean avoided like the plague. Even when his father assured him that fighting back was not only allowed but encouraged, Dean still pulled his little punches.

Clearly unwilling to risk even accidentally injuring his dad.

Now John was a big strong marine. There wasn't anything his boy's small fists could do to hurt him. That simple fact didn't seem to make a difference to Dean no matter how many times his father pushed him to try.

John really shouldn't have been so upset about the exercise. It's not like he wouldn't have eventually taught both of his boys how to fight and protect themselves no matter what kind of life they lived.

John himself had nowhere near the incentive his own boys had to keep himself safe as a child. Being raised in a good home with nothing more than the usual trials and tribulations of a young boy growing up middle class in the '50s and '60s didn't mean that his former military step-father hadn't made sure that John could hold his own if he needed to.

However, it was one thing to have the choice to teach his sons to throw a punch, and another thing altogether to have to teach them as a matter of survival in the scary life they lived every day.

Those first few early days at Travis' cabin, while John coaxed Dean into sparring, were exceptionally hard for all three Winchesters. Of course John was only doing what he felt he had to, but it didn't mean that he wasn't subconsciously upset over the necessity of it.

Dean would willingly walk into traffic if his father told him to, so he was following John's instructions without a word of complaint like the good little soldier that he was rapidly becoming.

Although it was crystal clear to John that his boy's heart was not into it.

Anything that upset Dean, upset Sammy, and the tiny toddler expressed his unhappiness by acting out. A character trait which always was and always would be the way with John's youngest when truly bothered over something.

Of course an upset Sammy meant an even more upset Dean, and as the days passed it became a frustratingly vicious circle that had John at his wit's end.

On the fourth day they were all once again outside behind the cabin. Dean was standing stock still in the area marked off for his training, clenching his teeth and trying to be tough because he knew that was what his father expected of him. John's heart broke because he could see his son's bottom lip quivering in anticipation of another afternoon of disappointing Dad, but it couldn't stop him from doing what needed to be done for his children's safety.

After two days of being in a bad mood that was brought on in no small part by the unease of the rest of his family, Sammy had thrown enough of a tantrum at lunch to get his very first smack on the butt and a time-out that he spent crying furious tears in John's arms. Fighting the nap time he was starting to grow out of, Sammy howled while his father swayed him on the old swing that hung from the slightly creaking rafters of the back porch until he fell asleep as Dean looked on.

His face just as miserable as his little brother.

Once Sam was finally out for the count, John left his youngest safely dozing in the shade of the covered porch, took a deep fortifying breath, and then strode out to the training area where inspiration suddenly struck.

Dean was fixated on where his little brother slept cuddled up with a raggedy stuffed pale green blob that was probably meant to be some kind of frog but just too cheaply made to really be sure. Won from a crane game in the lobby of a fast food joint that the Winchesters hit a few months earlier for dinner. John had reluctantly sacrificed a few quarters, justifying the expense as a fun way to teach his firstborn some hand-eye coordination.

A pitiful toy to be sure, but Sammy was in a phase right now where he couldn't be parted from it.

John noticed as he walked over that his oldest's attention never wavered from the porch, with Dean looking like he was ready to dart over at a moment's notice in case Sammy needed him for anything.

Not that it was an unusual state of being for him.

Dean hated it when his little brother was upset for any reason, and really John should have realized that sooner when it came to figuring out a catalyst to make his son willing to put his all into his training.

Because when John had given Sammy that one little spank, really more noise than sting, Dean might not have said anything to the father he worshiped, but John had seen the way his firstborn's hands had curled into tiny fists of rage at his father having the audacity to cause Sammy any pain.

After that, it was only a matter of convincing Dean that he needed to learn how to fight and defend for his little brother's sake if not his own.

Dean? Don't you want to be able to protect your brother?

Of course Dean wanted to protect Sammy. It hadn't even been a question. Once John had phrased it that way, wild horses could not have stopped the attentive big brother from throwing himself into the sparring sessions like he was planning on being the next world heavyweight champ.

The following weeks went far easier on the training grounds. Once Dean had embraced the concept of punches and counter punches, the rest came naturally.

He would spar with his father for hours while Sammy scooted around the yard chasing butterflies or bouncing a big blue rubber ball swirled like a marble that John had purchased for them on sale for $1.99 at the grocery store in the nearest town during a supply run.

Dean would take one glance towards his giggling little sibling, a picture of innocence and big hazel eyes, and a fierce determined look would come over his young face that John could feel in the power of his fists.

All Sammy had to do was sit on the back porch stairs, half a bologna sandwich in one hand and a little green army man in the other to entertain himself. The wind would shift in a soft breeze that blew the chocolate curls from his chubby face and he would give Dean this huge smile of adoration that said he trusted his big brother to take care of him, and Dean would work even harder to ensure that he was strong enough to protect his tiny sibling from all comers.

As the years went on, Dean never balked at learning a skill ever again. No matter what John was trying to teach him, whether it was throwing a punch or a knife. Shooting a gun or a bow and arrow. If it was something he could use to protect his little brother, Dean took to it like a duck to water, never slowing down until he was proficient.

It fed the fire in his belly that demanded that he keep Sam safe at all costs.

John knew early on that Dean would willingly sacrifice his own personal well being if it meant protecting his younger brother.

Something that John also encouraged which he knew made him an even bigger bastard than he already considered himself.

Maybe in the younger years it was just a need John had because he couldn't shake the fear he felt from seeing Sammy's crying little face streaked with Mary's blood as she burned over the crib. The idea that his younger son just needed that extra layer of defense from whatever happened that night.

That wasn't to say that John didn't value Dean's safety and security, but he would be less than honest with himself if he didn't realize that occasionally it took second place to Sam's.

He would like to think that he would have given Dean the same charge to be a guardian to his sibling even if they were still living the suburban life with Mary. Most older brothers and sisters were usually tasked with caring for the younger ones.

He would like to think that it was his job as Dean's father to be the one that watched over his firstborn as diligently as Dean watched out for Sam. To do his best to ensure that his children were treated equally.

He would like to think these things were true, but he also knew that his best sometimes fell far short of the mark.

Just how far Dean would go was established before Sammy was even out of elementary school.

John's youngest was a fan of going to school from day one. Primarily because the little boy finally got to go with Dean every day instead of being left behind with either John or whatever babysitter could be scrounged up. Sam had never liked either option and he wasn't particularly quiet about that fact.

But Sammy was also small for his age and painfully shy. An easy target when you were continuously the new kid in town.

All it had taken was Sammy being threatened and Dean's developing vicious side came out to play that left no doubt about his dedication to his baby brother.

The boys were staying in Blue Earth again for a bit while John went out on the hunt. It wasn't the first time they were enrolled in the local school near Jim Murphy's church and some of the kids already knew who they were but most of them didn't or didn't remember. That year Sammy was in the first grade and he managed to win a series of math games that the teacher had been playing with the class and then been rewarded with the grand prize of an enormous colorful book with 1,000 stickers in it.

Sammy's eyes had lit up and he had hugged it to his chest like a precious treasure when it was presented, because such a wonderful thing would never have been a gift from their often poor and always practical father.

The other children in the class had also been coveting the sticker book for days before Sam had joined the class, and some of them were more than a little upset that he had been allowed to make up the points to catch up to them in the contest. Sammy was always gifted in math. A natural result of Dean allowing his little brother to sit with him at the motel tables as he worked on homework.

Thanks to that the younger Winchester was already far ahead of his counterparts in the subject.

One little girl in the class, who was more than a little spoiled and used to getting her way at home with her doting family, was not happy at all at being bested by a stranger that came into HER classroom and won HER sticker book. Especially one who wore faded clothes and dirty sneakers and was in desperate need of a haircut.

After a morning of sulking she went crying to her sixth grade brother during the elementary school's shared recess. Happy to point out where Sam was sitting alone in the shade of a tree behind the monkey bars quietly flipping through his new sticker book and already picking out the ones he would share with Dean.

Her big brother had friends.

Friends who were more than happy to walk over to Sam with their buddy and who didn't mind picking on a smaller weaker kid.

Happier still to yank the book from the little boy's hands and not caring at all when the pages ripped while Sam screamed No!

Devastated and enraged Sam got to his feet, futilely trying to reclaim it from their much taller arms that kept it out of his reach while they laughed at his pitiful attempts. They passed it between them, keeping their hands high up in the air and gleefully tormenting the little boy who hadn't been bothering anyone.

Sam was a Winchester. He had watched countless hours of his father and brother sparring. He knew how to play this game. Balling up his little fists he swung ineffectively at the bigger boys who only laughed harder until the ring leader grabbed Sam by the collar of his Salvation Army shirt and brutally shoved him face first into the dirt.

"Serves you right for trying to take my sister's book, freak!"

It was a mistake for the boys to not question who Sam was. To not have the foresight to put two and two together to get a relationship between their target and the dangerously odd addition to the grade below them that was kicking their asses in the joint PE classes.

Already a budding ladies man, Dean had been chatting up a few of the cute girls in his class at the far side of the playground when a routine check of his little brother saw Sammy on the ground surrounded by the group of juvenile douche bags that were already on Dean's shit list.

They never even saw him coming.

It was only through the intervention of Jim Murphy that Dean avoided being suspended. The Winchester brothers were transient students and not always treated fairly by school faculty as they moved around.

They were unknown quantities that were more often than not suspect in the case of an altercation with the full time local students.

Dean had unapologetically beaten the snot out of all three of the older bullies. Their numbers not affecting his ability to take them down in the least with minimum effort and maximum damage. Stopping not when the teachers came running to intervene, but when Sammy's little hand tugged on his brother's shirt in a silent plea to get him to ease up.

For the next six evenings Dean sat at Jim's dining room table and wrote pages of lines about 'doing unto others' and 'turning the other cheek', his anger growing with each stroke of his pen every time he looked at his little brother's scratched up face. Still shaken, Sammy sat as close to him as he could without actually being in his brother's lap.

The battered sticker book that he couldn't quite make himself throw out flung on the far side of the table where it no longer brought the younger boy any joy.

When John arrived back at the rectory and was filled in on the whole sordid tale, Dean stood up from the table to face John like a man, as his father taught him.

In acceptance of his fate as he glared defiantly. Clearly ready and willing to take whatever his dad doled out, but thoroughly unwilling to apologize for his actions since he couldn't honestly say he wouldn't do the same thing again. Knowing perfectly well that calling attention to himself in school was a capital offense in his father's book and John wasn't known for his indulgence on the best of days.

It had been less than a year since the incident with the shtriga and Dean was still feeling the sharp sting of failure. For months afterwards Dean had sporadic nightmares about his hesitation in taking the shot in defense of his helpless brother and his father knew that his firstborn would never make that kind of mistake ever again.

The price was just too damn high.

John walked over to his son ignoring the flicker of nervousness in the green eyes, gave him an appraising look and then clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good man."

And then he walked into the kitchen to help Jim make dinner.

So John really should have remembered just how far Dean would go to protect his little brother from bullies.

Even when John was one of them.

/

All exhaustion and hangover remnants were instantly gone from Dean's face as he shot up from the couch and yanked his go-bag from the entryway closet. The horror of all his father's revelations since emerging from the basement making his blood run cold and his heart race with fear. He was striding over to the end table to grab his keys when his father's hand pulled on his upper arm to halt his movements.

"Where're you going, Dean?"

Dean shot John an incredulous look, yanking himself out of his father's grip as he went to pull the book with the emergency cash off the shelf. Apparently John had hit his head harder than Dean thought when the demon threw them earlier.

"Where do you think, Dad? To get Sammy."

He shoved the cash in his pocket and threw the book down on the sofa instead of taking the two seconds to replace it. Moving with purpose he slid his Colt 1911 into the back of his jeans and was just about to grab his jacket when John put a restraining hand against his chest.

"No, son."

Dean's first instinct was to shove his father out of the way, because nothing and no one was getting between him and Palo Alto right now, but he refrained, still unable to display that level of disrespect. Chest heaving with fear and adrenaline, he forced himself to still, briefly closing his eyes as he fought for calm and slowed his breathing.

"He's not safe out there by himself, Dad," he tried to reason as steadily as he could speak, his whole body thrumming with a desperate need to be on his way. "He needs us."

John wasn't having it, shaking his head sadly but not removing his hand knowing that it was the only thing keeping his son in the house. "No, Dean. He doesn't."

Behind them, Bobby cleared his throat as he motioned the dazed and speechless Henry to his feet.

"I think I'm gonna take Henry here to my place so we can check on what happened to the rest of his fraternity brothers. You two need some privacy."

Henry assessed his son and grandson, his need to set his own situation right warring with the conflict that was obviously playing out before him, before deciding that the crude man in the ball cap was probably correct.

Pulling on his suit jacket and straightening his tie, Henry reached out a tentative hand and almost patted John's shoulder in a gesture of comfort, but one look at the coldness in John's eyes stopped him before he could make contact. Instead he nodded at his son and then quietly followed the salvage man out the door.

John and Dean both watched the other men leave with a mixture of feelings about being left alone in each other's company right now. It hadn't been a particularly easy morning for them and it wasn't promising to shape up into anything better now that the whole sordid truth had come tumbling out of the closet of lies.

Since returning from his run, John had been forced into an unwanted and unwelcome encounter with his long absent father.

He'd captured and tortured one of Hell's most high ranking demons and made a horrible bloody mess in his son's basement.

He heard the twisted and mind boggling tale behind his father's mysterious disappearance, which just opened up an entire can of time traveling worms that he couldn't even begin to unpack.

And to top it all off, had finally been forced to come clean with his oldest son about all of the secrets he had been keeping from the boy for the past couple of years up to and including the fact that his beloved baby brother was infected with demon blood.

John needed a drink, or forty, and he needed them right the hell now and it wasn't even lunch time yet.

"Sit down, Dean."

An order that wouldn't usually be ignored until today, when Dean simply crossed his arms and stood his ground. Not unlike when he was smaller and the obedience that now came as naturally as breathing wasn't completely ingrained just yet. John could see his son's whole body thrumming with tension and hostility and to be fair he couldn't rightly blame the boy.

"Look," he began, shoving his hands in his front jeans pockets to make himself seem less threatening. "You brother is safe..."

"Is that why?" Dean interrupted, his hands shaking as he grabbed at his jeans and tried to keep himself from exploding. "Tell me the truth, Dad."

John swallowed hard and couldn't keep his face neutral enough to pretend that he didn't know exactly what his son was asking. "Is what why?"

Dean wasn't about to be toyed with. Not anymore. Every minute that ticked by was one more minute he was unable to protect his little brother from whatever might be fucking with his life right now, but he also knew that he wasn't leaving without a straight answer.

"Is that why you just let him walk out of here? Why you didn't drag him home from that crappy cabin in Des Moines? Why you didn't bring him back here kicking and screaming from Cali if you had to?"

"I wanted him to be safe," John protested. "I wanted.."

"He was safe here!" Dean shouted, getting right into his father's face. "You made sure he was! I mean, my God, Dad! We just had a damn Knight of Hell pop by for breakfast and she barely got a shot in before you cut her freakin' head off! What does Sammy have out there in California on that shitty campus? All alone thousands of miles away from us! Damn it!"

A swing of Dean's arm swept the TV remote and a few VHS tapes from the top of the entertainment center and sent them crashing to the floor as the young man gripped his head in his hands and spun around the room in frustration. He repeatedly ran a hand down his face and through his hair making the usually meticulous strands go wild as he tried to make sense of exactly how his entire life had fallen apart in the blink of an eye.

With his back turned to his father, Dean fought back tears of pain and frustration that he didn't want John seeing as he tried to compose himself enough to get his bearings. He had one more question for his father and it was tearing him apart inside to even have to consider the answer his subconscious had already told him that he was probably going to get no matter how much it hurt.

"You wanted him gone, didn't you?" Dean accused sorrowfully. "Your own son. You wanted him gone."

"That's not true, Dean," John protested, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder. "Sammy going was better for him. And it was better for you too."

"Better for me?" Dean turned around with such disgust and rage in his face that his father actually took a step back. "What the hell is the matter with you? How can you even say that after what happened last summer? Do you really think that Sammy leaving was better for me when I spent a month practically comatose on the fucking sofa?"

"That's not what I meant, Son. I know it was hard for you in the beginning, but you're both better off now."

Dean shook his head in disbelief, rejecting his father's words with every fiber of his being. It went against the grain of every single thing John had ever taught him to do or to be. They were raised to be a team. A perfectly in tune and efficient unit that had the bond of blood between them to make their dedication to each other's survival even stronger than most hunting teams.

"Bullshit."

John's face went dark as he raised an eyebrow and drew himself up to his slightly larger height and size, like a puff adder increasing its presence as it readied to strike.

"Excuse me?"

Dean drew in a sharp breath. Not out of fear from his father's attempt to intimidate him, but more out of a need to keep himself focused when his head was exploding in pain and the world was blurring in and out of focus from his white hot rage.

"I said, bullshit," he spat out. Not backing down when John's face flushed a deep furious red. "He's tainted now. You wanted him gone because you can't handle that your own son is something that you might have to hunt someday. That's why you wanted him gone, isn't it?"

"Dean..."

"Isn't it?" Dean screamed, his whole body trembling and his hands curling in and out as John assessed his son and weighed his options.

"Yes."

Dean's breath stuttered as he processed the answer, his eyes closing tightly as his stomach bottomed out as if he was riding a roller coaster and suddenly was caught in a free fall. His ears rang with a low hum and he felt a slightly sickening dizziness causing him to sway just a fraction of an inch where he stood.

"Okay," he said quietly, as the hysteria in his mind slowly began to wind down. "Okay."

John was about to try and explain his reasoning, slightly buoyed by his son's seeming acceptance. His mouth was just barely opening to speak when Dean struck like lightning. A sharp swift right hook that was just a shade too high up his father's jaw to actually knock the older man out. A deep grunt escaped his throat as John's head rocked from the blow and the coppery taste of blood seeped between his teeth.

"You son of a bitch," Dean hissed, his eyes glinting with tears and the fight starting to leave him as the adrenaline receded from the shock.

John reached up and wiped the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark hooded eyes assessing his son. "That's your one," he warned Dean, making it clear that another blow would be returned with equal force.

"He's your kid," Dean said, tears clogging his voice and his eyes pinched in pain. "And you just threw him away like garbage. How could you?"

"Do not tell me how I feel," John snapped, jabbing a finger in Dean's direction. "I'm doing this for Sam. And for you. I wanted him to be happy while I tried to find answers. He's the one that wanted to leave us."

Dean huffed and shook his head, running a hand down his face as he glared at his father. "No. He wanted to leave you. Sammy asked me to come with him before he went, and I told him no. After everything, I took your side and the whole time you've been playing me."

John couldn't pretend that the revelation didn't hurt him like a punch to the gut. Not that it should have come as any surprise considering how close his boys were to each other. Of course Sammy might want his brother near him, even after proclaiming his independence and desire to get out of the hunting life.

John's sons had always been co-dependent on each other, just the way he had wanted them to be.

"Sit down, Dean," he repeated, getting the same lack of compliance as he did before. He took a deep breath, accepted the slight shift in their relationship at least where this matter was concerned and replaced the that's an order with "Please."

After a few seconds of hesitation, Dean finally eased himself into the overstuffed chair next to the couch. If it was more a case of sitting down before the physical and mental drain of the morning made him fall down and less a case of obeying his father, John didn't dwell. At this point in time he was almost prepared to take what he could get because he knew how headstrong of a man his firstborn could be.

It just wasn't ever directed at John himself before today.

John sat down uneasily on the sofa and shifted towards Dean, resting his forearms on his knees with his hands clasped together to keep them from shaking. A deep heavy sigh choked its way out of his chest and he suddenly felt every one of his forty-eight years.

"You gotta understand, Son," he began, unable to make eye contact with his boy, "when I first found out, I didn't know what to do. All I did know was that I had to protect you and your brother. I thought.."

Here he paused, pinching the bridge of his nose as he relived those first few scary moments in his mind. "I thought it was just another lie," he continued, finally looking at Dean's miserable face and almost cracking from the devastation he saw there. "Because it was just too terrible to be the truth, and I didn't want to frighten you or your brother with something that I didn't really want to believe at the time."

In the chair Dean's chest heaved as he dragged in deep breaths while his fingers threatened to claw holes in the upholstery. He didn't want to believe his father's words now, because once he was lied to it was hard to take anything John was saying to him as the truth. It was only the unaccustomed weakness that he saw in his father's deep brown eyes that was forcing him to swallow the excuse down enough that he didn't feel like he was choking on it entirely.

"Then why did you make him leave, Dad?" he asked, the disbelief dripping from his tongue like venom. "Once you knew for sure that it was the truth. Why didn't you fight for him?"

"I did," John protested. Maybe more to convince himself than his child. "What do you think was happening the day Sammy left? You think I wanted any of that?"

Dean chuckled humorlessly as his voice cracked and a single tear he'd been holding in slowly slid down his cheek.

"I think you were furious that Sam hid his acceptance from us. Especially from you because you can't stand not being in control. I think you beat his ass so badly that day because he had the nerve to finally stand up to you and you couldn't take it.

John shifted uncomfortably, but he didn't interrupt his son because Dean obviously needed to get this all off his chest no matter how painful it was to hear.

"I think Sam tried to compromise with you and you wouldn't have it and it drove him away, and you didn't care because he's damaged goods in your eyes now. That's what I think."

Dean's rush of softly spoken words left him struggling for breath as his body shook with emotion. His gaze straying heavenward as he fought for control before he completely cracked down to a point where he wouldn't be able to get back up again. It was all just too much. His entire being now breaking against the rock he had always counted on to ground himself

"That's not true, Dean," John barked, his hackles raised from the blatant insubordination and the more than hint of truth.

"I was scared for him, that's why I was so harsh that day. I'm still Sammy's father, damn it, and I did what I thought was best for him. He was itching for months to go and you know damn well that when your brother gets an idea in his head, nothing's gonna talk him out of it."

Dean couldn't deny that part. Sammy was like a dog with a bone when he got an idea in his head. No one knew that more than his big brother.

"He was always going no matter what," John continued before throwing his son a heated glare. "And I'm still your father too and I didn't raise you to take that kind of tone with me!"

Dean swallowed rapidly and averted his eyes. Struggling for a a long moment with the tempest of emotions swirling inside him until finally the years of conditioned obedience and respect kicked back in. His initial resistance dying down in spite of himself.

While he wasn't about to apologize, he was finding it too hard to maintain the level of hostility that he'd been coasting on for the last few minutes. A lifetime of always taking his father's word as gospel a source of comfort when he found himself floundering.

John took the break in Dean's accusations to reconnoiter his thoughts, hoping to present them in a way that his firstborn would understand and accept readily enough to get him back with the program. It wasn't going to do anyone any good this late in the game to have his hotheaded Sammy dragged back into the mix while John himself was still fumbling for solutions.

"I've made some mistakes, Dean," he admitted, "but it was never because I wanted your brother gone when I found out. How could you even think that? We're going to save your brother, Son. Nothing else is more important than that. I just needed time to figure out how. I promise you Sammy's going to be okay no matter what it takes."

Those words were finally the ones that broke through Dean's mental blockade. John could see it immediately in the way his son's red eyes darted up hopefully to him. The way Dean always looked at John when counting on him to fix a problem or solve a puzzle.

The mild irritation he felt fluttering in his belly at his son's momentary lack of confidence in him bothered him more than it should considering all of Dean's years of unswerving loyalty to John and his cause. Despite that fact, he refused to feel guilty about his deception, because John always had his reasons whether his boys liked them or not.

With Dean as vulnerable as he was feeling right now, it wasn't the time to make his eldest understand the true horror of the situation. That cold truth that if John failed in his efforts to protect Sammy from a fate that had been predetermined for him, the only way to save his baby boy would be to do whatever they had to do to stop him before his humanity was lost forever.

Today was simply not the day to share all of the troubling thoughts that constantly plagued John's mind into near insanity.

"Go, Dean," John encouraged quietly as he reached over to gently place his hand on his son's trembling knee. "Go to California and see your brother. See for yourself that he's healthy and happy and safe. I think you have to, and I'll give you the contact info for the people out there watching over him. Talk to them. They'll tell you that he's okay."

Rubbing a hand down his face, Dean nodded as he wiped away the last trace of tears. The need to see with his own eyes that his kid was whole and happy and breathing air engulfing him until it filled every molecule in his body.

"But, Son," John cautioned, pressing a little harder on Dean's knee to restrain him gently. "You of all people know your brother. Better than I do. Better than I think even Sammy does himself. You know how he'll act if you tell him the whole truth right now."

Dean closed his eyes, his expression pinched and pained as his muscles tensed. He did know.

Sam would melt down.

Every action, a reaction that would quickly spiral out of control. Because his little brother had a temper that rivaled even their father's when truly worked up.

Sammy had every right to know what had happened to him. No one was debating that.

What was still happening to him, and he'd already been lied to enough and kept in the dark long enough.

Right now Dean could tell him all, with the fact that he had only recently been told himself saving him from his little brother's wrath. A wrath which would solely be directed at their father and rightly so.

But John wasn't wrong in his opinion that Sam's tendency to act impulsively would negatively impact their father's attempts to figure out their next course of action. Sammy would immediately want in on the search for answers. Instead of John being able to concentrate on leads and solutions, he'd be bogged down minute after minute by Sam's demanding hostility, masking the terror that the young boy would obviously feel because Dean was already drowning in it himself.

John patted Dean's knee and leaned back into the sofa, his face drawn and weary as he absently twisted his wedding ring. Dean glanced at his father's hands and couldn't quite make himself look John in the eye when he asked his next halting question.

"Did you ever suspect?"

The hands stilled then as John scrutinized the plain gold band. The delicate engraved pattern it once sported completely erased by years of constant rubbing. A habit born of a mixture of both sadness and a need for comfort. A self induced pain that John required occasionally to keep himself on task when the days got too tough and the hurt was too much.

When he would have thrown it all away to be able to hide his boys in a small town in the middle of nowhere and raise them quietly and safely instead of continuing a fight he wasn't sure he could win anymore.

"Maybe," he admitted for the first time out loud. The first time to himself, even. "I think maybe some small part of me always understood that it was the only thing that made sense of everything else. The part that wanted to know why it was us that this happened to. I just wish she would have told me."

They sat in the complete silence of the empty house for a few more moments as both men tried to work through the torrent of emotions bombarding them. The desire to grab a bottle and climb inside was strong for John right now. The past few hours more than a man was built to bear all at once.

But unlike the aftermath of a hunt, when he could finally let go and drown out his fears and horror with whatever liquid courage he had on hand to blot out the memories of the last few days or hours from his mind, there was far too much going on in his world right now and John knew he would need a clear head and a sober mind to deal with it all.

He slowly climbed to his feet, the exhaustion he felt in every limb like a living thing. A monster weighing him down, heavy as chains thick enough to anchor a battleship. Dean's knees were beginning to bounce as the boy's body began to course once again with the need to be out on the road.

John recognized the signs easily enough, having felt the same more often than not.

Grabbing his journal from its place in his go-bag, he flipped through a few pages until he found the information he needed. Tearing off a scrap of paper from the back, he jotted down a series of names and phone numbers and handed it to his son when Dean stood up as well.

"You call these people when you get close to Palo Alto. I'll let them know to expect you."

"Yes, sir," Dean said quietly as he took the paper, gave it a quick glance and then slipped it into the billfold of his wallet.

John could see that his son wasn't able to face his father and possibly see the bruise on John's jaw that was most likely blossoming if the dull ache he felt was any indication. Dean's outrage and ire had been justified and even John was man enough to admit that. But he also knew his boy well enough to know how it was now probably eating a hole in his son's belly because his firstborn keenly felt every speck of guilt he put on himself.

Unlike Sammy, who had needed his father's firm hand to regularly mete out discipline to keep his sharp tongue and hot temper in check, Dean had only ever needed a vehicle for the absolution he craved when he very rarely stepped out of line. It was one of the core differences in their personalities.

Sam usually looked at punishment from his father as a personal offense against him. The act of a tyrant who disregarded Sam's wants and desires for his father's own amusement. Only accepting it when the boy truly felt guilty about what he had done wrong, which honestly hadn't happened very often and most likely involved a fight with his brother where Sammy was clearly at fault.

Where with Dean it had been more of a cleansing. A way for the boy to feel that the slate was wiped and he was forgiven, because John had always made a concerted effort to make clear that no grudge was being held once they were finished.

John wished now that it was as simple as taking a belt to his older son in order for them to get over the misery he could plainly see on Dean's face from throwing that punch. A wish that was only made stronger by the desire that both of his children were still young enough for John to keep them safe under lock and key exactly where he wanted them at all times.

Dean would probably allow it too, more to his shame. Because John had chipped away at his son's independence enough over the years in an effort to ensure that the boy obeyed his every command. Purposely cultivating an iron clad hierarchy where dissent was simply not allowed when it had the potential to endanger his children's safety and well being.

But Dean wasn't a child anymore. Hadn't ever really been one actually. Since the fire anyway. John could no longer perform some of the functions that his firstborn had needed to keep him obedient and on an even keel. It was up to Dean now to figure out how to square his emerging independence with his desire to remain his father's right hand man.

This wouldn't be the last conflict between them and John also had to accept that their dynamic was slowly changing in spite of the fact that he intended to continue calling the shots in the field.

It had already started the day Dean decided that renting this house was something their family needed. John hadn't wanted to see it at the time, but it really had been for the best. In that respect he could at least admit that his son had better instincts than he did in certain matters.

John also had his suspicions on just how far Dean would have gone to keep Sammy at home if the boy had chosen a local college instead of running away to the west coast.

"M'sorry, Dad," Dean's soft voice shaking John from his deep thoughts, his green eyes dipping and darting in their struggle to meet his father's.

It had been a monumentally tough morning.

Not one to usually coddle, John reached out and pulled his son into his arms, Dean burying his face in his father's shoulder. "I know, kiddo."

Dean seemed to deflate a little as his father held him close for a moment. Each of them relishing the contact. But the hug didn't last long because both of them needed to exhibit strength to the other, even if it was to their own detriment. John reached up and cupped the side of Dean's face, giving him a gentle pat before thumbing away a stray tear. It looked like Dean's guilt was getting ready to roll to a full boil.

"Don't let it happen again."

His son nodded shakily as he turned to gather his things so he could finally hit the road. John walked him to the door, hesitant to let his boy out of his sight right now, but there was nothing for it. A whole host of problems still needed his attention right here in Sioux Falls.

"You can probably make the trip in twenty-five if you do a reasonable speed," John instructed, making a decision that his son needed his father to reassert his authority.

"Split it in half, don't be a hero. He'll still be there when you get there. You check in with me twice a day and I don't want you going out on the town and getting off mission. You drive, you eat and you sleep. You see your brother and then do the same on the way back. I want you back here in six days at the most. Understand me?"

Dean nodded and didn't protest. His father didn't need to say the words for him to know that his wings had been clipped until further notice, and rather than be pissed off by the man's presumption, Dean felt a little comforted by it. This was the way that his father ran things and Dean had accepted that long ago.

"Yes, sir."

John put a warm hand on his son's back as he opened the front door for the boy. "I wish I could go with you but,"

"Yeah, I know Dad," Dean said as he hefted his bag up on his shoulder. "What are you going to do about Henry?"

"I don't even know," John answered honestly, feeling overwhelmed again by the problem facing him at Singer's place. He reached down and gave Dean's hip a prodding tap. "Now go on and git, and you call me when you're in for the night."

Dean allowed himself a small smile at his dad before heading down the porch stairs. John watched him from the door as he threw his bag into the Impala and slid behind the wheel. The engine roared to life under his loving touch and gave his father a quick wave as he backed out of the driveway and pointed her west towards the highway.

John shut the door and ambled back over to the couch where the effort he had been sustaining to keep moving failed him as he collapsed against the cushions and buried his face in his hands.

Remembering that Dean only punched things that could hurt his little brother.

/

Just pulling up into the salvage yard had Henry feeling like the best course of action would be immediately getting a tetanus shot.

Two mangy looking dogs trotted over to greet the truck as it came to a halt just outside of the dilapidated two story house that had the time traveler wondering what kind of zoning laws existed in the future if this thing had managed to survive a demolition order. The salvage man exited the truck and scratched the mutts behind the ears for a moment before jerking his head in the direction of the house.

"Might as well c'mon in, Henry. My books ain't coming to ya out here."

Henry exited the truck and wiped his clothes of the tiny specks of grime that he imagined were covering him from the filth of the vehicle's tattered cloth seats. This was one of his primary objections to hunters in general. They were unwashed, uncivilized automatons. Nothing more than cannon fodder in the fight between good and evil.

The sooner he found the modern day headquarters of the Letters, the better.

Following the grubby man up a set of weathered steps they entered the abode that didn't seem to fare any better on the inside than the exterior had. Henry couldn't hide the distaste in his countenance as he glanced at all the clutter strewn along most of the aged furnishings.

"It's the maid's day off," Singer snarked as he headed over to a desk at the far end of what seemed to be some sort of office/library/living room combination. "We'll start with a computer search and see what we can find about your buddies the night of your initiation."

Henry scoffed from the sheer incredulity of the man's words. "You can't fit a computer in here," he said condescendingly.

From where he was sitting at the desk fiddling with an odd looking device in front of him, the salvage man hmphed and began punching buttons on what appeared to be some sort of keyboard.

"Yeah, well, things have changed a little in the past forty years or so."

Henry frowned, realization dawning over him once again. No matter how calmly he was trying to take this whole episode in stride, it was still like getting hit with an occasional boulder. He could only hope that he would be able to return to his own time as quickly as possible, because it was glaringly apparent to him that several wrongs needed to be righted for his son's future.

"Of course. My apologies."

While Singer tapped away Henry cast a glance around the room. There seemed to be a disproportionate amount of empty liquor bottles to the number of books on the tables. It disgusted him that his son would find himself comfortable in such surroundings. Henry wasn't a snob by any means, at least in his own opinion, but this kind of association was untenable.

"So how do you know my son, Mr. Singer?"

The salvage man looked up with a raised eyebrow and smirked. "We're on the PTA together," he answered sarcastically, causing Henry to frown. "How d'ya think?"

Singer waved a hand in the direction of the piles of books on the occult as well as the firearms that lay on another table that were in various stages of maintenance.

"I see," Henry said as he reached out to pick up the nearest book that caught his eye. Surprisingly it seemed to be a very rare edition on some of the less studied aspects of demon origination. He had to admit that he was impressed.

"John came to me about a year or so after his wife was killed. He needed help with information and I happened to be able to give it. He's been neck deep in it ever since while the boys were growing up. We help each other out occasionally."

Henry brightened by the opportunity for a more pleasant topic. He couldn't even begin to hide his pleasure over at least one of his grandchildren having the aptitude for scholarly pursuits.

"Ah yes. Samuel. I have to say I'm very happy to hear about his studies at Stanford. An excellent school. Although it's too bad that Dean chose to follow in John's footsteps, but that can be fixed."

Singer looked up from his computer and narrowed his eyes at Henry. "Dean's just as smart as his little brother. Some folks just don't need to show it off all the time, like some kind of damn trophy. I'd get to know the boy first before you write him off."

Chastened, Henry raised his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that Dean doesn't have some fine qualities. It's just that the Winchester men traditionally pursue academic excellence and I was pleased to hear that Samuel made the choice to do so even given his unfortunate upbringing."

Bobby chuckled and shook his head as he went back to work. "Oh yeah. That kind of argument is going to go really far with John. Good luck with that."

"I don't understand," Henry said, frustrated by the perceived disdain he saw in his son regarding Samuel's schooling. "Why doesn't John want his son to get a quality university education?"

Singer stopped what he was doing and let out a deep sigh as he lifted his cap and rubbed the top of his head. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully as he spoke.

"John wants a lot of things for his boys. But most of all he wants them safe. You gotta understand that after Mary's death he kept them hidden away as much as he could to protect them. It ain't been easy for him to have Sam on his own so far away. John's proud of the kid, but he's scared and that don't always translate well."

Henry took the words in and let them process a little before nodding his head in understanding. "I suppose that's only natural, considering what I have learned today about the circumstances surrounding the death of his wife. When I return to my own time, rest assured I will make preparations to make sure that none of this comes to pass."

"Come again?" The salvage man narrowed his eyes at Henry and if he had been a lesser man he might have even been afraid for a moment, but he was a Winchester and Winchester men never show fear.

"It's quite simple, Mr. Singer. I assure you. A few basic ingredients and at least a week for my soul to recharge and I will make my return to 1958. None of the hardships that my son has had to endure need take place. He can have the life he was meant to."

"Is that a fact," Singer grunted. "You might want to check with John on how he feels about you messing with his life like that."

In reality, Bobby couldn't honestly say what John would feel about this unexpected ripple in the timeline. He didn't know for sure if John would just take the opportunity to potentially save Mary's life and then damn the consequences. It was a terrible gamble when so many things could go wrong. One simple wrinkle in time and who knows what the outcome would be.

There was a reason why people didn't mess with that kind of mojo.

"Back to your buddies. What did you say their names were again?"

Henry walked over to the desk and peered with interest at the small screen. Pleased to see how far the computers that fascinated him in his own time had progressed.

"Um..Ackers, David. Larry Ganem,"

Bobby's fingers clacked over the keyboard and a second later a result popped up. "Alright, looks like August 12, 1958. A tragic fire at a gentlemen's club at 242 Gaines Street in Normal, Illinois."

"Yes," Henry agreed. "That was the address of our chapter house."

"Larry Ganem, David Ackers, Ted Bowen, and Albert Magnus – all deceased. Those your buddies?"

"Mostly," Henry answered cryptically. "I need to use your phone."

Singer gave him a side eye, but then shrugged and chose one from a bank of handsets all marked with strips of discolored tape. Henry raised an eyebrow at the 'FBI' labeling but then raised it to his ear.

"Operator, I need Delta 457."

The salvage man snorted and shook his head as he reached out to take the handset back. "Yeah, that operator is probably pushing up daisies by now. Any other bright ideas, genius?"

"Daisies," Henry muttered as he paced across the room. "Yes. We need to find a cemetery immediately."

Bobby sighed and thought about how much fun a road trip with Johnny and his estranged father was going to be, because as much has John hated his father there was no way the younger Winchester man was going to be left behind right now.

It sure wasn't going to be cute.

"Balls!"

/

In the shadow of a clump of oak trees that was artistically incorporated into the otherwise barren urban parking lot, Dean sat in the driver's seat of the gun metal gray '95 Volvo sedan and shifted uncomfortably in the tight confines.

There was a reason he liked driving his baby everywhere. These little foreign jobs were hell on his legs and for the life of him he couldn't figure out if everyone in Sweden was some kind of midget that didn't actually need decent leg room.

But Caleb's buddy had assured him that at least he wouldn't stand out in the area while he was driving it. Especially if he was planning on hanging around Sammy's snobby campus at all. His next destination after checking out where his little brother was working at this Italian restaurant smack dab in the middle of yuppie land.

Dean wasn't sure what Sammy's work schedule was just yet, but since he was not so patiently waiting to meet up with the guy that had been watching his little brother at his part time job Dean was just going to hide out under as much cover of darkness as he could and hopefully catch a glimpse of the kid.

Sam wouldn't be coming out the front of the restaurant when his shift was over. Dean was told that much already so he didn't need to waste his time surveilling an area that was more exposed anyway. Like the rest of the staff, Sammy would leave through the rear exit of the nondescript brown building to the lot where the employees parked and apparently where Dean's runaway brother kept his borrowed bicycle.

Fortunately there were enough cars in the lot that Dean's suburban mom-mobile parked all the way in the back corner wouldn't stand out. Especially when anyone with an ounce of taste would be making eyes at the sweet little blue corvette that was parked a few rows up.

Not that Sammy would even be looking for him in the first place.

It was taking everything he had in him right now to not go barging into the place to grab his kid, thoroughly kick his stubborn ass and then throw him into the car and hightail it back to South Dakota where Dean could keep him safe. Despite Dad's myriad assurances that Sam was well protected at Wussy State, Dean wasn't of a mind to take much of what John Winchester said on faith these days.

Although Dean had backed down before he left home, too much time had passed to really make all of those lies by omission digestible. Too many lost opportunities to share the load with a son who had always lived every day of his life with his father's goals and mandates at the top of his priority list.

They were living a nightmare right now. Much of it completely avoidable, which was the real kick in the pants that had him pissed right the fuck off.

If Dean hadn't shown such blind faith with everything his father had ever told him he could maybe wrap his head around not being let into the little circle of trust that apparently included a number of total and complete strangers. Just because they shared a common ancestor back in the day as if that was supposed to mean something to him.

Maybe Dean could square his father's mistrust and deceit by chalking it up to fear on John's part. The part that wasn't totally convinced that Dean wouldn't accidentally make any rash decisions that might endanger his brother even if they were made with good intentions.

Maybe, just maybe, Dean could have eventually been talked round into agreeing with his father that Sammy was better off thousands of miles away from them because they brought danger into their midst everywhere they went and that was not what the kid needed right now with Hell already on his ass.

But that time was over.

Stone number one at the top of that priority list had always been Watch out for Sammy.

And Dean always had.

Even when he had no idea what he was doing because he was just a child himself, he had always always looked out for the safety, health and welfare of his little brother.

For Dad to have treated him like Sam's well being was not the first, second and last thing that Dean thought about every single day of their lives growing up. To keep such horrifically scary and extraordinarily pertinent information from both of them that they really did actually need to make informed choices in life.

Well that was just a bridge too far in Dean's opinion.

Because you couldn't always fight the inevitable, but you at least had a better chance to survive if you knew who your opponent was.

Dean knew that he'd eventually forgive his father's deceptions. Quite frankly he was already well on his way there whether he wanted to or not. Simply because he had a need to keep the peace with his old man for a number of reasons that weren't all selfless.

Unless Sam came willingly back to the fold, John was all Dean had and it was probably going to take more than withholding some information, regardless of how critical it was in the grand scheme of things, to get Dean to write his father off like Sammy had when the alternative was life on the road alone.

Already he had backed down enough to obey his dad's directives for the trip out here, as unreasonable as they might have been, because following his father's orders was just how he kept his own mind on straight sometimes. It also helped Dad to feel in control when at least one of his kids wasn't bucking his every word, and at times like this Dean was willing to sacrifice a little of his own autonomy if it helped his father deal with the shit storm he was just handed.

As ordered he had plotted a halfway point for the trip and rolled into Ft. Bridger, Wyoming a little under eleven hours later. Calling his father to report in once he got his room key and enduring the sharp reprimand he was given for breaking the agreed upon speed limit.

If Dad was redirecting some of the stress he was surely feeling right now to Dean instead of taking it out on someone who couldn't handle it as well, then Dean was okay with that.

Although Dean had been tired and more than a little grouchy that he wasn't permitted to blow off some steam after his long drive, it was probably for the best. There wasn't enough penicillin in the county to treat the aftermath of a night spent in the company of the only live action he'd seen around town before pulling into the motel parking lot.

He also had no poker face when talking to his father and knew that if he did down enough booze to get him to risk a trip to the VD clinic and got called out on it later by John he would fold like a cheap suit.

At least holed up in his motel room with nothing but a six pack of El Sol and some pay-per-porn he was having a better time than Dad was.

Apparently he had gone to Illinois with Bobby and Henry to dig up a couple of graves and Dean had snickered and congratulated himself on escaping the world's most awkward family road trip. His newly arrived grandfather and all of the time warp drama surrounding that whole nonsense a situation that Dean wanted far away from until he could wrap his head around it a little better.

Something that he couldn't even begin to process until he had seen with his own eyes that Sammy was okay.

Dean checked his watch again and frowned when he realized that not even five minutes had passed since he sent the damn text. Time was dragging painfully slowly in his excitement to catch a glimpse of his little brother because it had just been too freakin' long already.

/

Working diligently behind the line, Milo was doing his end of shift clean up as he stole surreptitious looks towards the dish washing station. Sam was wrapping up the front of the house dishes and had started his clean up while waiting on the last of the line pots and pans, so he wasn't incredibly busy.

Milo's phone, burdened with the importance of the very recent text, was burning a hole in his pocket. Lenny K had arrived and was waiting in the back lot and now Milo had to try and get Sam out there without making the boy suspicious.

Sam wasn't an idiot, so he couldn't use just any excuse, but fortunately he did have a plan.

When he knew no one was looking, Milo grabbed small mitts and pulled the bain marie insert that held tonight's special arrabbiata sauce out of the steam table and set it on his board. Moving as casually as he could he accidentally bumped against it and sent it tumbling to splatter all over the insulated pressure mat under his feet.

"Cazzo!"

"Hey!" Maria scolded, giving Milo the stink eye from the other side of the room.

"Sorry, Maria," Milo called, blowing her a kiss in apology. "Just got a mess over here. Hey Sam! Any chance you could give me a quick hand?"

Sam looked up from where he was washing down the counter behind him and wiped his hands off on the towel slung over his shoulder before trotting over to Milo's station.

"Sure man. What do you need?"

"I'm a moron and got sauce all over my mat. You mind taking it out back and hosing it off for me so I can finish up without breaking my neck?"

"Yeah. No problem." Sam bent down to roll up the mat and cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "Klutz," he teased, earning a playful shove from Milo who took advantage of being temporarily taller to tousle the younger boy's short but still unruly hair.

Sam's hand shot out to grab Milo's wrist, but he was smiling so Milo knew it was all in fun. Although he was inwardly impressed by Sam's lightning fast reflexes. Any hunter would have recognized the training in the boy's reaction.

"Thanks, buddy. I gotta couple of things to do out front too and I'm behind schedule."

"Yeah, don't mention it," Sam said as he hefted the mat over one shoulder. "I'll get the floor over here too when I mop down later."

"I appreciate it, man."

Milo watched Sam's retreat until the boy was heading out the back door before he shrugged off his chef's coat and quickly made his way through the restaurant and then out the front door, circling around until he could steal his way into the back lot.

Dean was tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, never taking his eyes off the back door for a second. He felt like he was climbing the walls waiting here like chump when he should just be dragging Sammy's ass back home. A slight movement at the door caught his breath in his throat and he was suddenly rewarded with the first sighting of his little brother in almost six months.

"There you are," he whispered, feeling months of pent up tension bleed out of his limbs. "Thank God you're okay."

Off in the distance Sammy was unrolling a large thin sheet of something black on the pavement that was partially hidden from Dean's view by a series of short bushes. The boy reached down to crank the nozzle of an outdoor spigot before grabbing a hose and then shooting a steady spray of water across the black surface.

He looked good, Dean gratefully observed. Healthy and strong as he wrestled with his chore. His hair was quite a bit shorter than it had been in years, the sight of it forcing Dean's heart to clench because it made Sammy look like a little boy again, and damn if Dean didn't want to just run over there and hug the stuffing out of the kid and never let go.

Dean had one hand on the door, his fingers gripping the handle until the plastic creaked under the pressure. The need to embrace and shelter his younger sibling consuming him like a fire that couldn't be quenched until he knew that Sammy was safe and protected from the horrors out there hunting him down like an animal. The knowledge that something so dark and evil had taken a special interest in Dean's beloved baby brother rattling him to the core.

Sammy had stopped in his task long enough to pull his phone out of his pants pocket to answer it. Even across the parking lot Dean could see the younger boy smile.

A wide grin that showed the straight white teeth that were a product of Dean's relentless pursuit of free or super cheap care from any dental school he could track down during their travels. One of the few things that Dean had badgered their father about, determined to make sure that Sammy had regular cleanings and checkups because while they didn't always have money for the best clothes, Dean's little brother wasn't going to look like he wasn't taken care of.

A few wild nights with an enthusiastic and creatively energetic dental hygienist even got Dean a good deal on the night guard that Sammy had needed for a year when he was fifteen because he wouldn't stop grinding his teeth.

Whoever was on the other side of the conversation must have said something amusing because Sam threw back his head and laughed, his dimples deep where they punctured his thinner cheeks. A closer examination revealed that Sam did look a little leaner, but also a bit taller in Dean's mind which made him more than a little sad.

He had clearly grown up some during their time apart and a pang of hurt cut deep inside Dean as he thought about how they would never get that time back with each other. How unnecessary their separation had been and how it just didn't need to continue no matter what Dad thought about it.

Mind made up, he was just about to exit the car to take his wayward brother home when the passenger door opened and a dark haired guy just about Dean's age slid into the seat next to him. Dean pulled his gun without a second of hesitation but the move didn't even phase his unwanted guest in the slightest. Keeping the Colt trained on him, Dean glared while the other young man held his hands up slightly, his cautious moves and confidence identifying him as the hunter that worked with Sam.

"Name's Milo. D'Angelo," the intruder said, not flinching. "You need to do the tests, I won't stop you."

Dean held his position and assessed the guy for a minute before lowering his weapon. His gut instinct telling him that this was indeed his contact and the one that had been watching out for his kid brother all these months. He didn't like someone else doing what he felt was his job, but the dude had kept Sammy safe so far so Dean figured he at least owed him some courtesy.

"Dean Winchester."

Returning his gaze to where his brother was now off the phone and finishing his task, Dean laid his hand lightly on the seat between them keeping the gun in his grip. While he was willing to go on a little faith here, you could never be too cautious.

"So, what's your deal in all of this?" he asked, never looking away from his brother. "Are you like my sixth cousin twice removed or something?"

"Nah. No relation. But I've worked with your cousins before here a couple'a times."

Milo reached into his pocket, moving very carefully so as to not spook the guy with the gun and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. "You mind? I only have a couple minutes before I have to head back in or they'll notice I'm gone."

Dean cast a quick glance over at him and then shrugged. What did he care. Wasn't his car.

He did pull his flask from his front coat pocket, took a swig of the holy water laced cheap bourbon and then offered it. Milo took a drag on his newly lit Camel and then reached for the flask, giving Dean a small salute with it before taking a drink.

Of course the other hunter knew the score, and even though the booze tasted like turpentine it was necessary to show Dean that he posed no supernatural threat by accepting a swallow of the hooch. Milo passed the flask back as he cranked down the window and blew a cloud of smoke into the encroaching night air.

A few moments of silence passed with Dean just watching Sam's movements, sometimes smiling himself but mostly looking pinched and sad. Milo wasn't sure of the whole story of why the brothers weren't speaking to each other. The Campbells didn't seem to know either, or maybe they just weren't talking about it, and Sam himself barely spoke of his family during his work hours.

But when the younger boy did mention his family, it was all about Dean. And there was no doubt in Milo's mind that Sam missed his big brother just as much as Dean obviously missed him.

"You here to take him home?"

Dean shot him a look before he sighed deeply, running a hand down his face as he took another shot from the flask. He didn't answer.

"He misses you, you know. It's none of my business or nothin', but he does, in case you were wondering."

"Is he happy?"

Milo took another drag and watched with Dean as Sam finished his task and hauled the mat back in through the door, closing it behind him. He could see how quickly Dean's face fell from losing sight of the kid and he felt bad for the brothers and whatever the barrier between them was.

"He's not unhappy," he answered honestly. "Kid works his ass off with school and the job here, so he doesn't have much time to have fun. But I think he's okay with that."

Dean chuckled softly and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight grin for a half a second. "Yeah, that's my boy."

"So what now?"

"I don't know," Dean said as he stuffed his gun inside his coat pocket. "Think I might scope out that fancy campus of his, just to be sure."

Milo flicked his butt out the window and reached for the door handle. "Hold on a second. I got something to help you blend in."

Dean watched him exit the car and walk quickly to the nice deep blue Corvette that he had admired on his way into the parking lot. The young man reached into the car and pulled out a bundle of light gray fabric and then made his way back into the Volvo

"Here. Put these on. I got them so I could check up on him occasionally."

In the bundle was a Stanford hoodie emblazoned with the school name in crimson letters and a black wool winter cap. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him and Milo just shrugged.

"Seriously dude. What's your deal? You're a hunter. You're a cook. And what's up with the killer set of wheels over there? You a bank robber too or something?"

Milo hesitated a moment before lighting up again, leaving Dean wondering if the guy's impending lung cancer would affect his ability to watch out for Sammy.

"I'm a chef, not a cook," he said, smirking over at Dean to show him that he wasn't offended in the least. "But the job doesn't really pay for shit, so the car came from my rich father."

"Okay. And the hunting?" Dean was curious as hell even as he suspected that in another time he might actually like this guy.

"Why does anyone get into the life?" Milo asked matter-of-factly.

Dean nodded and jerked his chin in the direction of the large scar running down Milo's face. "Before the job or after?"

"Before," Milo responded as he reached up to rub at it out of habit. "When I was a kid, I had a little trouble with a poltergeist. Fucking thing almost killed me."

Yeah, Dean had heard that story before. Nothing like almost getting ganked by some supernatural scumbag to light the fire for the hunting life inside of you. Most people needed a little payback.

"But then a hunter named John Winchester showed up, got rid of it and saved what was left of my face."

Dean's eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up into his forehead at this little revelation. To his knowledge he and his father had never come across one of the people they saved years after the fact. Let alone one that joined The Life because of it.

"My dad was the one that saved you?"

Milo smiled and nodded as he took another deep drag. "Yep. And I was lucky to get away."

Realization dawned on Dean as the shock wore off, his memories clicking into place like a series of tumblers opening a lock. "I know that case. You're the D'Angelo kid from Dover, Delaware."

"I was," Milo agreed, flicking ash out the window. "But after the poltergeist my parents' marriage went to hell when my very religious mother decided that we were cursed because of my father's questionable business practices at the pharmaceutical company he worked for. So they split up and I became Milo D'Angelo from Park Slope, Brooklyn."

Dean chuckled and shook his head at the twist of fate, remembering those happy weeks in Rohoboth Beach and feeling better about this guy being the one to keep an eye on his brother. "Well, your parents gave us probably the best vacation we ever had, so thanks for that."

"They were grateful. Your old man saved their kid. They probably would have given him that damn beach house if he asked for it," Milo said, laughing along with him.

"And you became a hunter."

Milo checked his watch and knew he had to get going. Maria was going to throw a fit pretty soon if he didn't get back.

"Yeah, eventually. After seeing every kid shrink in the tri-state area, I realized that what I really needed was to hurt something, you know? At first it was other people. I got kicked out of three private schools for fighting."

They both laughed together about that. Dean knew all about the conflicts that could arise on school grounds when teenage boys were hormonal and hotheaded.

"My parents were going nuts about what to do with me. Some holistic guru my mother paid a fortune to "see my path" told her that I had to confront my past to find inner peace, or some shit like that. So she asked our old parish priest who he contacted for help and he gave us Jim Murphy's name, and then Jim put me in touch with the Brooklyn community. They took me in and I trained under Tommy Hawkins. I think you know him?"

Of course Dean knew him. They had just served on the Pile together after 9/11. "You hunted with Hawkins' crew?"

"Yeah, for a couple of years. The training got me focused again and I finally graduated from school, and once Tommy decided I was field ready I worked a job with a few other guys and met your cousin Christian at a hunter's bar in Nebraska. He's out here too, by the way. He offered to come to Brooklyn for a situation we had there saying it needed his special skill because he's a cocky son of a bitch," Milo snarked with a large fond smile, "and then he and I did a few jobs together until one went bad. You know how that goes."

Dean nodded, because yeah he did.

"I got busted up pretty badly and my mother almost lost her mind, so I quit before she lost me for good this time. My dad had been supporting me because you know how well hunters get paid." Milo smirked and Dean joined him in laughter again. Both very aware of the glamorous life of a hunter.

"It pissed my mother off that Pop was really proud of me for doing what we did, but he didn't want me in the field anymore either. I'd spent summers in Sicily with her family and worked in my uncle's restaurant in Palermo as a kitchen monkey. I liked to cook, you know? Three months of physical therapy later, I agreed to go to Sicily with her and train for real."

"You got out," Dean stated approvingly. There were a lot of times when he wished he could say the same.

"I got out. But I kept in touch with Christian. I didn't know you guys were related. I don't think he did either then, to be honest. Cousin Maria knows the score from what happened to me because my Nonna made all her kids become part of the network to help out hunters in appreciation of your dad. We're loyal like that. At first Maria and Antonio were just going to be support for your cousins out here, but when they found out Sam needed a job..," he trailed off, flicking another butt out the window.

"A hunter network?" Dean asked in disbelief. "That's a thing?"

Now it was Milo's turn to be surprised. "Yeah. How do you not know about that? You didn't see the hunter's signs on the window of the restaurant?"

Dean huffed and gripped the steering wheel, the urge to punch his father again coming on strong. "Yeah, my dad, he...well, he wasn't real big about us playing nicely with others."

"Yeah, I get that," Milo nodded. "More lone wolves in the life than team players. Anyway, Christian knew enough of my story to know that I would want to help a Winchester, so I caught the next plane out. It wasn't the first time I worked out here. Wasn't hard to fall back into place."

Milo shrugged it off like it wasn't a big deal, but Dean was profoundly grateful. "We appreciate that, man. Really."

"Forget about it. I owe your father a life debt, and we pay ours. Besides, Sam's good people. I'm happy to help out."

Movement over by the door caught them both off guard and a second later a handful of the restaurant staff were streaming out.

"Fuck, I gotta go," Milo said as he reached to open the passenger door. "You got my number if you need anything."

"I'll get these back to you somehow," Dean told him, indicating the clothes.

"Don't worry about it," Milo waved them away. "I got more." He hesitated, unsure if he should butt in even more, but then he decided he owed it to Sam. "Look, it's none of mine, but if you decide to see Sam, you should just take him home. Otherwise...you know what? It's not my place."

"Otherwise what?" Dean asked, slightly offended but also sadly curious.

Milo took a deep breath and rubbed his mouth, thinking. "Otherwise, just leave him be. From what your cousins say, he had a rough time when he first got here and he's just starting to relax. I dunno if he can do that again, y'know?"

Dean stared at the other young man and didn't give away the hurt he was feeling, or his acceptance of what he already suspected to be true.

"Also," Milo continued, "Mark told me he talks to someone on the phone almost every night around ten in the courtyard outside his dorm. I've checked on him a couple of times there and he usually shows."

They nodded their goodbyes and Milo shut the door to the Volvo before darting off towards the front again. Dean kept his eyes on the door for a while longer until he saw the lanky form of his kid brother exit. Wearing the winter coat that Dean had bought him last year with his backpack fastened to his shoulders, his short hair emphasizing his elfin face, Sammy could have been thirteen again if not for the extra inches of height.

Dean watched him head over to the bike rack and unchain the fanciest model among the small group, not surprised that his brother had made some wealthy friends. It seemed like everyone out here was dripping in money. No wonder the kid wanted in on this action.

He checked his watch as his little brother mounted the bike and took off down the street. It was nine-thirty, and if what Milo said was true, Sam would be out in the open courtyard of his quad in about a half an hour. Another perfect opportunity to approach him.

Although the idea was becoming less appealing than it had been on his arrival in California.

/

It had been a long and frustrating couple of days in Normal, Illinois.

John had led the way in the Sierra after making Henry take shotgun in Singer's Chevelle. It was over eight hours to Normal from Sioux Falls and there was no chance John was going to be of any mind to have that long of a closed quarters care and share session with the man who had abandoned him and his mother all those years ago.

Logically he was beginning to accept that in all likelihood it was on account of his father staying here in the future than actually of him making a conscious choice to leave his family. The knowledge that maybe Henry hadn't intended to abandon his wife and son after all.

However the discovery of that little piece of information didn't mean that it was going to magically make the years of hurt and resentment go away any time soon.

John hadn't been back to Normal since his childhood. The memories it held for him too painful because of what it did to his mother, and even being in the near proximity of it had always made his ire flare so it was scrupulously avoided in his travels.

Having been so young when they moved away he obviously didn't really recognize the place as they rolled into town, relying instead on his maps and general experience of municipal planning to find the cemetery.

The graves they were looking for were in a back corner of the boneyard. Untended and ignored, if the weeds growing up around them were any indication. It was hard to be sanguine about the deep look of loss on Henry's face when confronted with the less than impressive resting place of his friends, but somehow John managed.

After explaining the significance of Albert Magnus and finding the Haitian symbol for speaking with the dead on Larry's stone where the Aquarian star should have been, Henry had proclaimed the need to dig up the grave. John had sighed deeply, because of course they did. Didn't seem to matter that it was the middle of the winter in Illinois and the damn ground was frozen.

Singer's nerves were a little frayed by the hours in the car with a man who did nothing but request Pat Boone on the radio and repeatedly denigrated his life's work as a hunter, regardless of how polite he had been about it. He called both the Winchesters idjits, told them to stay put and stormed off. Returning half an hour later with a stolen flatbed and a backhoe.

Henry had tried to make conversation several times while they waited, but John wasn't having it. Instead he made a few calls to some of the hunters that would still take one from him, including Ellen and Ash at the Roadhouse to see what they could come up with on the Men of Letters. Pointedly making himself unavailable until Singer returned and they unearthed the remains of one Captain Thomas J Carey, III where Larry Ganem's body should have been.

It took a few hours of information digging to find out that Captain Carey, according to county records, now lived in Lebanon, Kansas and was a very happy 116-year-old.

Against John's wish to get back on the road quickly, Henry had insisted on checking out the address where his chapter house should be. The newspaper clippings regarding the fire hadn't been promising as to whether or not it was even standing, but at this point John was open to just about anything that would help him avoid actually speaking with his father.

Besides which, he could sympathize with someone who needed to investigate a fire that had claimed the lives of people important to him.

The store clerk at Astro Comics which was now housed at 242 Gaines Street was accommodating enough to the strange men who wanted to look around the premises, once John had passed over a slightly rumpled fifty dollar bill and flashed his still very pretty smile. There was nothing there, of course, to assist them in any way, but Henry needed to see for himself and so they had.

No one was exactly looking forward to another eight hour plus drive all the way to Lebanon, but there really was nothing for it. As much as John would have liked to keep Bobby around as a buffer, he wasn't about to ask him to drive that far out of his way when the reality was that it was a family matter and didn't really involve him. They split up at Astro Comics and Bobby decided to at least get a head start back to Sioux Falls.

Which is why John and Henry were now sitting in awkward silence in a shared room at the Strip 91 motel in Normal.

The remnants of a take out dinner of fried chicken and potatoes lay scattered about the dinette table, slowly congealing while John flipped through his journal. Across the room Henry sat in quiet contemplation in one of the two fading armchairs by the windows. He was staring off into space, deep in thought, when he unconsciously started to whistle the theme that played on his young son's music box.

"Don't," John rumbled, not bothering to look up.

While he had often caught himself doing the exact same thing over the years, it wasn't exactly something he wanted to hear coming from Henry after all this time.

"I'm sorry," Henry apologized. The for everything left unsaid.

He looked over to the table where his son sat hunched over the leather bound book. Standing, he crossed the room and slid into the empty chair, brushing aside the food containers so that he could take a better look at what had his son's entire focus.

"Is that your hunting journal?"

John looked up, his eyes narrowing as he bit back an unnecessary retort and gave a quick nod before returning to the page he was on.

"I planned on keeping a journal of my own. A similar one to yours, as a matter of fact."

A deep exhale pushed it's way from John's lungs and he seemed to contemplate the journal for a few brief seconds. He spun it around and pushed it towards Henry, flipping to the first page where he used his index finger to lift a corner of the photo mounted there.

Surprised by the gesture, Henry darted his eyes down to the cover and saw the H W that was tooled into the leather. He looked back up in shock because he had received nothing but hostility from his grown son, and certainly wouldn't have expected John to regularly use a memento of the father he could barely look at.

"You kept my book? Even though you thought I had abandoned you?"

John pulled it back toward him and idly flipped through it, glancing at the pages and pages of facts and details and drawings he had jotted down since his first day on the hunt.

"It was the only thing I had of yours. Mom put it in a box of my toys from our old house that I kept in storage after I married Mary. I kept meaning to get some of them out for the boys to play with, but I was always so busy that I didn't get around to it."

He reached into his wallet and withdrew the photo he kept of him and his sons on the hood of the car and passed it over for Henry to see.

"After the fire, when everything we had was just...gone...I went to the unit to see if there was anything we could use. I got the toys for the kids and saw this in the box. I guess I grabbed it thinking I wanted answers on more than just what happened to Mary."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Son," Henry said sadly as he held the photo in his hand. "Your children must have been some comfort to you after your loss."

"They're everything to me," John replied as he took the picture back and returned it to his wallet. "Which is why I'm not letting you erase them from existence."

John's words were quiet and cold and they hit Henry in the face like a metaphorical bucket of water that left him shivering from the underlying current of rage laced beneath them.

"I..I don't..," he stuttered, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with the terrifying stranger opposite him who in no way at this moment even remotely resembled his cherished son.

John shook his head and narrowed his eyes, rising up from the table to use his greater height to his advantage.

"Don't fuck with me, Henry. I knew the moment you realized that your son was a mouth breathing hunter and not some douche in a suit that rides a desk that you were planning on ditching me again to try and fix things. Even though we both know that you have no guarantee that your little spell will get you back to the right time."

Henry was about to try and protest his son's words but John held a hand up and the glare in his eyes was enough to make his father bite his tongue.

"What do you think I've been doing here these last eighteen years?" John snapped, causing Henry to involuntarily recoil from the vehemence in his son's tone.

From what he had learned since his arrival, all John did was obsess over the death of his wife. Why wouldn't he want to save himself from that?

"You really think with all the shit that hunters deal with on a daily basis that somebody somewhere might not have suggested trying a spell to change what happened to my family? Or that I haven't lain awake at night tossing and turning over the idea of possibly unmaking the world if it keeps Mary from going into that nursery? How it would affect my wife? My kids? All the people I've saved?"

"Son.."

John shook his head and leaned into Henry's space, making himself as intimidating as possible to be sure that his message was delivered perfectly clearly.

"Don't. 'Cause it turns out that this ape did read a book or two and I know what the consequences of messing around like that would be. I would die for my wife if it meant she got to live. It wouldn't even be a choice. But my boys aren't expendable. Not for me. Not for her. Not for anyone and certainly not for you. You understand me?"

Henry swallowed and eventually nodded his head in agreement. All hope of seeing his wife ever again evaporating as quickly as the morning mist on a hot day.

"Good," John fumed, his lip curling into a sneer. "'Cause I actually give a damn about my kids. Something I didn't learn from you."

Next to the journal John's phone vibrated and he broke the stare long enough to grab it up and check the incoming number.

"It's my son," he bit out. "He saved more lives by the time he turned twenty than your entire super secret book club ever did, and you'd see him wiped from the map if you had your way."

Chastened, Henry lowered his eyes back to the open journal while John answered his phone. His son might be an uncouth, flannel wearing mongrel, but he wasn't wrong about the mixed possible outcomes of time travel. It wasn't necessarily an exact science when used by man, which is why Henry needed to be more careful the next time.

"Dean. What's going on?...How'd he look?...Okay, good. Do that and then head towards Kansas...I'll give you a meeting point when you're closer...Be careful, son."

John snapped the flip phone shut and tossed it on the table, crossing his arms as he sat down on the edge in front of his father.

"You want to try to make peace with me, Pop?" he growled between clenched teeth. "You use whatever knowledge your fraternity brothers taught you, and all the little tricks you have up your sleeves, to help me get justice for my wife and protection for my sons."

"John," Henry placated, resisting the urge to back away from where his own child was eyeing him like prey, "I implore you to think about this. If I go back, I can give you the life you deserve. Not this one that you were forced to live. Don't you see that would be for the best? If your marriage to Mary is meant to be you will find each other again and have your sons."

John leaned right over into his father's personal space and grabbed him by the front of his dress shirt.

"You chose your club over me and my mother, and that's fine. I've had over forty years to accept that. But you will NOT take my children! Let's be perfectly clear about that."

"I am aware that time is a delicate mistress, but I will make sure that you get them back, Son," Henry pleaded, desperate to get John to see the truth in his eyes. "They're my grandsons. Of course I would try.."

"Try!," John spat out, shaking Henry a little. "That's my point. Those fancy magic skills that you're banking on don't always work like you want them to, do they? Considering you let a demon follow you here in the first place. So you're gonna forget about going back to your time and you are going to make it up to me and my family in the here and now. You chose to come here, so now you're gonna suck it up and stay here and help me."

"Okay, son," Henry agreed, all the fight drained right out of him. "If that's the way you really want it, I won't go against your wishes."

"Good," John answered, letting go of Henry's shirt and returning to his chair. "You should get some sleep. We have a long drive tomorrow."

/

Dean needed to be careful making his way to Sam's dorm. Although it was already dark out and there were small pockets of students wandering the quad at the moment he was going to need more than a school hoodie and hat to keep Sam from recognizing him out in the open.

Even with his little brother completely in the dark about Dean's visit, Sam wasn't so blind that he wouldn't spot Dean's extremely familiar bowlegged swagger from half a mile away.

Fortunately the architecture of the quad included covered walkways with garlands of vines creeping up a large number of columns and through the wooden slats on top to help shroud his approach. There were also several nicely maintained bushes that were wide enough to provide partial cover if he positioned himself just so. He arrived early enough to ensure that he had a good view of all of the three benches outside Adams that Sam might use for his mysterious conversation.

On the drive over he had given Milo's words serious consideration. Not that he hadn't already been thinking these things on the drive out here from South Dakota. But it was one thing to muse over an abstract concept and another entirely to have someone else point out what you were already suspecting.

The idea that Sammy struggled during his initial months at the school that he had sacrificed everything to attend pained Dean in the way that only the hurt of someone you deeply loved could.

He couldn't honestly say what his reaction would have been early on if his little brother had reached out to him for comfort or reassurance. Dean knew that most of the time he wouldn't have been of a mind to want to give it, but that in itself didn't mean that he wouldn't have anyway because he had always tried to do what Sammy needed the most.

Just because Dean himself was feeling hurt and abandoned, he wouldn't have been petty enough to make Sammy feel that way too by blowing off a phone call.

It was easy enough for him to blend in so that none of the students gave him a second glance. Well, maybe some of the pretty little coeds, but that was just the burden he carried for being an incredible specimen of a man. It's too bad he didn't have more time to stick around and show these Stanford ladies some of his special brand of attention.

Ducking into a corner of the walkway, far enough in the shadow of the area lights, he pulled out his phone and played around with it. Just another student checking his messages or playing a game as far as anyone else could tell if they even bothered looking, which most of them didn't as they walked by. Dean kept an eye on the time as the minutes ticked by and right on cue he caught a glimpse of the gangly form of his kid brother as he strode across the dead grass of the courtyard and flopped down on the middle bench.

If the urge to go to him was strong at the restaurant, it was positively suffocating right now.

He had only been watching Sammy from a far distance earlier. Well enough to see him more or less, but here in the courtyard it wouldn't even take him a full thirty seconds to throw his arms around the kid. The restraint it was taking to keep himself hidden away in the bushes had Dean practically crushing his phone in his hand.

Milo's information wasn't wrong. As soon as he sat down Sammy appeared to be scrolling to a contact and then raised the phone to his ear and a mile wide grin spread across his face as he started talking.

Sammy wasn't just having a quick conversation either. It seemed like he barely drew breath once he started, grinning like a maniac the entire time. He was happy and animated. Talking with his hands like he did when truly in a good mood.

On one level, Sam's obvious contentment stung because there was still a tiny part of Dean's mind that felt his little brother should be miserable and guilty for ditching his family and living a life so far away from them when they needed him so badly. But the vast majority of Dean's mind and heart just wanted the kid safe and happy, no matter how much it was killing his big brother to be separated from him.

Sammy talked on the phone for almost a full half hour and Dean would be lying if he said that he wasn't envious of and pissed off at whoever was on the other side of that conversation.

More than curious and plenty jealous of the unknown person that had the ability to command all of his little geek boy's attention like that when Dean himself usually had trouble pulling the kid's head out of a book long enough to eat a decent meal.

Finally Sam ended the call, looking down at his phone with an expression on his face that Dean could swear was almost sad if hadn't just watched the boy obviously enjoy himself for thirty solid minutes. The younger boy held the phone in one hand while he dashed at his eyes with the other which was...odd... in Dean's opinion, considering how happy Sammy had been just a moment ago.

If there was ever going to be a right time to approach the kid, now was it. But then a moment later a tall blond boy that just exuded confidence came crashing out of the door to the dorm and scanned the courtyard. When he saw Sam he called out and beckoned him inside and Sammy smiled when he looked up and gave an acknowledging wave. He put the phone back in his pocket and trotted over to his friend who gave Sam's shoulder an affectionate slap and they disappeared together behind the closing door.

Dean stared after them for a second, blowing on his cold hands. He nodded to himself and then turned to walk towards the parking lot.

The window of opportunity gone.

/

The Winchester men had seemingly declared a non verbal detente on their drive to Lebanon the next day.

Henry learned early into the drive that his son preferred a steady stream of music and no conversation as he effortlessly cruised down the highways heading west. Not that he particularly enjoyed John's choice in audio entertainment. Modern day music was just a bit too harsh for his ears to appreciate.

An observation that would have gotten at least a small laugh from his son since John himself never listened to anything that wasn't already at least twenty years out of date.

The visit to Captain Carey's house did serve to prove the man's identity as actually being Larry Ganem, one of Henry's old mentors. Larry wasn't the least bit surprised by the manner of their arrival. Apparently he had already guessed what happened that night at the chapter house and was more than pleased to finally confirm that Henry made it out safely with this key to whatever it was.

Henry didn't take the appearance of his old friend very well at the onset.

To be fair, it had only been a few days for him since he had last seen Larry, crouched on the floor of the chapter house. Bleeding from the eyes and thrusting the gold box at him with a desperation that had prompted Henry to obey his training without question when pursued by Abaddon. Leaving his family behind for places unknown without conscious thought given to exactly how he would facilitate his return.

Larry was old and wizened now. The scars around his ruined eyes deep but pale pink from the passage of time. Just a tired old man who didn't have the fight left in him to carry on the ways of the Letters by himself. The last of the American chapter with no children of his own to carry on his place. He had gone into hiding the night of Henry's initiation and taken a new identity during his long road to recovery, waiting for Henry to find him.

John's ears had perked up with the description of the coordinates that Larry scribbled on a notepad as being the supernatural mother lode. He didn't even waste one second of time before he was plugging the coordinates into a text to his firstborn. Dean had called his father just before they entered Larry's home to say that he was less than fifteen minutes outside Lebanon.

So now they all stood in front of the subterranean brick entrance below an abandoned power station. An air of cautious but excited anticipation of what lay beyond the heavy iron door that only a magic key had the ability to open. Three generations of Winchester men ready to begin the next great adventure.

Together.