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.

24. February 2002

A/N Hello my dear readers! I have not fallen off a cliff lol. Thanks to my lovely beta mak2018 for bravely tackling my pages of rambling and always catching my mistakes!

/

Magic.

As much as hunters hate the very idea of it, magic is the reason for a lot of the things they are able to do to kill the monsters that go bump in the night.

Most of them would argue that the tools they use aren't necessarily magical per se, but it's really more of a case of six of one, half a dozen of another. While not technically classified as magical, sometimes you just have to admit that if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's a damn duck.

Same with magic.

Much of the knowledge that hunters used came from lore that was steeped in magic and the occult. Of course the argument was always going to be made about the differences between spiritual magic and black magic, but in the end it was still just magic.

A lot of hunters don't believe in a big G God. Yet they are more than happy to use implements associated with religious devotion to a higher power.

So, in other words...

Magical

From the rosaries they used to make holy water and the blessed iron rounds, to the "good" spells that some of the more aggressive hunters would employ to get the job done. Mysticism and occult objects. Hunters, while thinking they were more pure than the monsters they hunted, generally walked a very fine line of ethics when it came to their super special tools of the trade.

Which is why it was sometimes a little hypocritical when they hunted witches, considering that a fair portion of their knowledge was created by the more benign members of covens throughout history.

John Winchester had always taught his sons that "if it's evil, we kill it". No middle ground, no exceptions. Simple black and white lines. However, as Oscar Wilde once said, the truth is rarely pure and never simple.

So it is also with hunting. Especially when you find yourself a legacy of the Men of Letters, as John now did.

There are three types of witches in the supernatural world.

The most common type, and the ones who eventually pay the ultimate price for their powers, are the Borrowers.

Borrowers are inorganically created witches, whose lust for magical abilities is so frenzied that they are willing to bargain their immortal souls with lower ranking demons simply for a taste of the craft. Uncontrollable and inelegant, their time with the gift usually ends in nothing more than madness, pain and blood before being whisked away to the Pit.

The second type, and certainly the rarest, are the Naturals.

Naturals are the ones who are actually born with the gifts. Their talents are organic on a cellular level. An extension of their very limbs that's as simple for them as breathing. They are the true forces to be reckoned with. Wielding a power that is incomprehensible to most and able to devise spell work that can be stunningly artistic.

If a witch is the third type, the Student witch, they are incredibly fortunate if they are able to find a Natural to instruct them. The unfortunate will fall prey to a Borrower merely pretending to be a Natural who will most likely get the Student witch condemned to Hell without even realizing what they have done.

Once upon a time the Grand Coven was the supreme command of witches. The ultimate authority sanctioning witches in their use of magic and they were certainly not to be trifled with. They chose only the best of the best to admit into their ranks and it didn't take much to offend a high ranking witch of the Grand Coven. If you found yourself in such an unenviable position then your days were surely numbered unless you had a talent for disappearing.

But there came a time when the powerful witches of the Grand Coven, unable to contain their lust for power and material wealth, garnered the attention of a group of exceptionally crafty and skilled intellectuals. Men who used their considerable influence as prominent members of society to whip up public frenzy and the scorn of the church against the members of the Grand Coven who soon found themselves running for their very lives.

Unfortunately for the witches, the Men of Letters were not just intelligent but ruthlessly driven as well. It wasn't long before the Letters had plundered their archives of spells and potions and stored them in their bunkers all over the world. The Letters might have expressed public disdain for the actions and practices of the Grand Coven, but they certainly were not above using their spells and talismans and potions.

And nowhere was there a greater example of these ill gotten gains than the primary MoL bunker in Lebanon, Kansas.

In fact, so addictive were the spoils of the Coven's trove, that witches were not the only magical beings that the Letters eventually absconded with to serve their purposes.

Something that the three Winchester men were about to discover.

/

John and Dean were used to going into unfamiliar buildings where there was no guarantee of electricity and a more than likely chance of something hiding deep in the bowels of the darkness. The flashlights that they both carried just as much of an everyday accessory as their guns and watches. Once Henry had freed the key from its ornate gold box and found the hidden lock, both of the hunters were armed and prepared for just about anything that could come at them as the heavy iron door swung open.

The inky blackness of the interior emitted a smell of stale air towards them and as John and Dean both clicked on their lights the faint outlines of an Art Deco styled wrought iron railed balcony appeared before them. John directed his beam across the wall to his left and saw the recognizable service panel of some sort of electrical system, coming up short for a brief second as the light illuminated a small two man table with a chess game in progress that would never be finished. Behind him, Henry took in a deep breath that sounded decidedly pained and John fought his instinct to express his condolences to his father for the colleagues he was undoubtedly thinking of right now.

Opening the service box, John flipped two large antique breakers and immediately the entire area was flooded in bright lights as the unmistakable sounds of an air ventilation system whirred to life. Dean stood at the edge of the balcony in rapt fascination as he viewed the cavernous space below him letting out a low whistle of appreciation as Henry quietly joined him at the rail.

"Ham Radio. Telegraph. Switchboard. This was our command center," he said wistfully, his heart aching for his fallen friends. "I was to do a two month rotation here after my initiation."

Turning towards the metal stairway the three of them moved slowly and carefully, John and Dean openly holding their guns with the safety off as they performed a well practiced and coordinated sweep of the room below them as they descended. The room itself seemed to be dominated by a large map table that quickly caught Henry's fascination as he rushed over to it.

Dean came up behind his grandfather, cocking an eyebrow at the man's obvious delight which only became more confusing when Henry lifted his eyes up to the marble crown molding of the high walls where you could just barely make out the outlines of several strange symbols. Across the room John was looking equally perplexed with a fair amount of trepidation mixed in.

"This isn't right," Henry declared out of the blue as he squatted down and began to examine underneath the table. Bending over next to him Dean could see a large cluster of red cables coming out of the table and disappearing into a grate in the floor underneath.

"Henry, what is this thing?" he asked as his grandfather stood back up and rubbed his chin in thought.

"It's a computer. Well, part of one, actually. This piece is the global tracking system."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and he exchanged a look with his father who was openly scowling. "A global tracking system? For what?"

Henry chuckled and shook his head as he began following an invisible line across the floor. When he hurriedly started to make his way towards a hallway both Dean and John quickly followed behind.

"For supernatural threats and events, of course."

"Your little clubhouse has a tracking system for the supernatural?" John asked skeptically, speaking for the first time. "How do you know what that thing is? You said you've never been here."

Henry stopped short and put his hands on his hips. He didn't care for his son's tone and he was just plain tired of having every word that came out of his mouth questioned.

"Because I helped build it, John," he snapped, not looking at his son. "Now if you'll excuse me I need to find out why it's only working at partial power."

With that he continued down the hall with purpose until he found another stairway and then darted up to the second level. John and Dean were too startled by his words to immediately follow him. John especially was having trouble wrapping his head around the idea that not only did his family come from a time where they had a secret organization that was housed inside a magical bunker but also that his own father apparently was the supernatural equivalent of Steve Jobs.

By the time they caught up with Henry he was in a room housing what was clearly an enormous, old school style computer. The kind that you saw in documentaries on the History Channel during late night reruns. The elder Winchester appeared to be right at home as he skillfully examined the monstrous beast that was emitting a low, happy hum as various lights on it and the wall panels moved in harmony.

"All the encryption software seems to have survived intact," he said more to himself than the two others in the room with him. "But there must be a reason why the radar isn't working."

Before either Dean or John could ask any more questions Henry was off again and this time heading to a lower level into what appeared to be a mechanical room. He smiled broadly upon finding another control panel and was depressing a large yellow button labeled Reset before either Dean or John could stop him.

"Somehow the system was put into Standby Mode," he told them with a satisfied grin on his face. "Hopefully that fixes the problem."

A second later the entire room went dark as they could hear all of the mechanical systems they had just turned on shut down again. John raised his gun and flicked his flashlight back on which made Henry roll his eyes.

"Just wait for it, Son. I know what I'm doing."

True to his word, a few seconds later the lights and all the other systems came back on line stronger than before. John and Dean looked around for signs of foul play just in case the system reset knocked something malevolent loose from the bunker's interiors, but when nothing happened after a few moments they relaxed just a fraction.

They watched as Henry finished his examination of the control panel in front of them and then clapped his hands together, beaming a wide grin now that he was a little more on terra firma. The past few days had him feeling like a fish out of water in his son's world, but this was his domain now. It was like getting off a rocky boat after too long at sea and coming home.

"We should go back up and check the radar now," he decided, not waiting for his son and grandson to agree with him as he started to climb the stairs back up to the map room.

They had almost reached the top of the staircase when the sound of someone humming drifted towards them from a room halfway down the hall. Back on guard, Dean yanked Henry to a stop and put a finger up to his lips to indicate that his grandfather should be silent as he extracted his gun from the back of his jeans and quietly pulled the slide. John maneuvered his way to the front and signaled that Dean should follow. When they reached the open doorway where the noise was coming from the two hunters moved as one unit, brandishing their weapons to threaten whatever was in the room making the noise.

"Oh dear me!"

Inside what was obviously the bunker's kitchen was a middle aged looking woman with neatly styled reddish blonde hair and wearing an apron over her dark tweed skirt suit. She looked like someone's old fashioned mother with her pinned curls and sensible low heeled shoes as she stirred the contents of a mixing bowl on the counter. Nevertheless, John had seen enough evil come in innocent looking packages, so after a brief second of surprise he resumed his high alert stance.

"Who the hell are you?" he barked, getting a sharp intake of breath from the woman in front of him. She clucked her tongue and looked positively offended.

"Language!" she scolded, as Dean threw his father an incredulous look. "There's no need for that kind of talk, young man."

John scowled, his lip curling up into a sneer. He didn't like it when his own grandmother spoke to him like that and he liked it coming from an unknown threat even less.

"I'm about two seconds away from pumping your ass full of lead unless you answer my question, lady."

"My goodness," she squawked, putting her hands on her hips. "You have some nerve coming in here and talking to me like that!"

She narrowed her eyes at John and then seemed to come to a quick decision and raised her hand. Dean instinctively moved in front of his father, taking a defensive stance before John even knew what he was doing before they were both saved from her wrath by the appearance of Henry in the doorway.

"You're Mrs. Butters, aren't you," he asked cordially as if the creature wasn't about to kill his only child. Subtly gesturing to his son and grandson he threw them a hard glare until he was convinced they would at least give the impression that they were standing down. "Larry Ganem told me about you."

Immediately the frown she had been sporting turned up into a smile at the mention of Larry's name and she lowered her hand enough to happily clasp it together with the other in front of her.

"Why yes I am!" she replied cheerfully. "Oh that Mr. Ganem. What a lovely man he is."

Dean got the hint right away that they had just dodged a bullet, although he could tell that his father was overly tense next to him and likely to do something reckless if she even looked at any of the Winchesters funny again.

Moving further into the room, Henry extended his hand to her, ignoring his son's clear outrage over the action. John was just going to have to learn that he didn't know everything, Henry decided.

"I'm Henry Winchester, Mrs. Butters. Pleased to meet you."

The woman took his hand in both of hers and warmly shook it as she bounced a little with an enormous smile on her face. "Oh Mr. Winchester! I've been expecting you! How lovely to finally meet you! I had almost given up hope that you all would be back."

Once she had finished shaking Henry's hand she glanced around the room to where the other Winchesters were standing as if she were looking for something.

"The others are here, aren't they?" she asked, her smile starting to slip.

Reluctant to wipe the happiness from her cheerful round face, but knowing it had to be done, Henry let out a deep sigh and prepared to give the bad news.

/

Dr. Stilner's office wasn't quite what Sam was expecting from the outside. Although there was more than a bit of Mission Revival architecture spread throughout Palo Alto, somehow he had envisioned something different for the building where he would be serving in a coveted position as a research assistant for a renowned professor of Native American studies.

The nine week course of American Indian Mythology, Legend and Lore was a standard 100 level Humanities offering that Sam had been eyeing when he filled out his preferred schedule for the winter quarter. Normally taught by the aged and increasingly dull Dr. Meisner. A boorish and antisocial man who long ago lost the passion for enriching the young minds that took his classes in favor of merely putting in the required hours to maintain his bloated salary until acceptable retirement age.

Dr. Meisner had once held a place of elevated status in his academic circle because of some rather brilliant research in the early years, hence the placement he had at such an esteemed institute of higher learning. But those days were long gone now and as time went on this course in particular had become a barren wasteland of mostly indifferent students as the regard for the teacher declined.

Acquiring a reputation of being only attended by those who could tolerate sitting through the bone dry lectures of an obviously disinterested instructor for the inevitable payoff of very little outside work and easy credit hours.

It was sad for Dr. Meisner that his long career would be decidedly marked at the end of a once promising legacy by the barely concealed grimaces of those unfortunate souls who were subjected to the once learned man's curricular inertia, as well as his disdainful colleagues who were long desirous of his absence in their privileged midst.

The most standout memory of his career had rapidly and ignominiously become a universal avoidance of the close proximity of morning breath so incredibly heinous that even the most supernaturally naive civilian could be convinced that true evil walked the earth.

Sam being Sam however wasn't just looking for a class where he could phone-in his attendance and not actually learn anything.

All the sacrifices he had made to attend Stanford weren't for the purpose of whiling away four years of his life in ignorance like some other students he could name. Aimlessly coasting along from one keg party to another until he had scraped by well enough for a degree that would open doors regardless of how much knowledge he managed to absorb through the osmosis of an ever present hangover.

Not Sam Winchester.

He wanted to broaden his mind and happened to actually have a genuine curiosity of the subject material

He also had a Gen Ed credit requirement to fulfill but that was besides the point.

Exposure to weapons-grade halitosis aside, this particular class sounded like a no brainer to him.

It seemed that fate was determined to smile on him in a somewhat cruel manner in any case. Over the winter break, Dr. Meisner tragically had a massive stroke. His housekeeper was horrified to find him already stiff and cold face down in his Cream of Wheat one morning when she came to do her weekly deep clean. There was no family to speak of to mourn him, leaving only former co-workers to publicly laud him while they privately felt a guilty relief that he no longer took up space on their impressive roster.

Higher education could be cut-throat like that when your next salary increase was only as good as the school's ranking.

So when the students returned to resume a new quarter of classes a select segment of the campus had been abuzz with the news that the renowned Dr. Amanda Stilner would be gracing Stanford with her learned presence to fill some of the now vacant courses. Even more exciting, she was choosing a student to assist her with research for an upcoming book.

An honor not normally bestowed on undergrads and certainly not freshmen.

Which is why more than one head was turned when the admittedly cute but decidedly invisible and terminally shy Sam Winchester was tapped for the job.

Sam had first developed an interest in Native American history and lore during one of their many stays in Housatonic, MA. With so much supernatural activity lurking behind every corner of the picturesque New England area, John had parked the boys at the Mayflower Motel on more than one occasion for days at a time while he was off hunting anything that popped up on his radar within a 100 mile radius.

Never one to complain about any of their father's orders in the first place, Dean loved going there because he had a raging adolescent crush on Donna, the pretty, blonde barely-out-of-high school maid that their father slipped a few bucks every few days to keep an eye on his boys during her daily rounds.

As Dean's infatuation grew, it became increasingly embarrassing for his little brother because of how Dean would perk up like a dog sniffing the aroma of frying bacon every time the melodic announcement of Housekeeping flitted through the thin motel room doors.

Not unusual for the boys, there also wasn't a lot to do in a small village stuck in the middle of nowhere in the summer. A definite drawback when you were young with a hyperactive mind that got bored easily. Happily for Dean the motel had a decent pool that he was thrilled to take advantage of most days. Because while the majority of short term travelers were older retirees or couples with young families, occasionally the pool area also brought the potential for pretty girls in bikinis which he thought summer was all about in the first place.

Hours working on their dad's mandated fitness regimen in the pool also meant less time training in their normal mechanical fashion which didn't have the added bonus of such pleasing scenery.

Something he could definitely get on board with.

Unlike his fussy little brother Dean didn't mind the water workouts one little bit. Already a strong swimmer of course because Dad emphasized all physical activities as something that was crucial for hunting.

At fourteen and a half, and well on his way to filling out, Dean was clearly someone that the bikini beauties were noticing and he didn't have any trouble garnering more than his fair share of attention from the young ladies that came and went during their stay. The majority of his day was spent lounging in the sun and showing off his hardening chest muscles while his fair skin slowly bronzed and the summer sun sprinkled gold flecks through his short hair.

His adoring public swooned at the sight of him strutting around the pool deck in his low hung board shorts while his jealous little brother sulked at a corner table with a book from his self imposed summer reading list.

Sam, being the petulant sour puss that he was most of the time at that age, infinitely preferred the cool confines of the village library when he could escape. If for no other reason than to buck his father's commands to spend the days in the water honing his skills like his brother. It didn't matter to him how many times Dean had angrily cuffed him on the back of the head and called him an ingrate. Reminding him on a near hourly basis that John was spending more than usual on their accommodations just for the sole purpose of the boys having a working pool to train in.

And no, Sam didn't care if his lifesaving skills in the water were up to par. No one was going to need a bony little geek to rescue them from a water sprite with the Incredible Dean Winchester around.

The fraternal bickering became the default setting of their relationship for the duration of that particular stay. The brothers not attempting to pretend that they were even a tiny bit close to being happy with each other those two weeks that dragged by during John's longest absence to date. Of course if their father had been around, he would have put a quick end to the infighting that neither of them would have enjoyed, so they were more than happy to take advantage of the lack of parental intervention to indulge in their mutual annoyances.

Ever since finding out the truth in his father's pilfered journal more than a year earlier, Sam hadn't been quiet about his dislike of their lifestyle now that he knew the true reasons behind it. Likewise, John hadn't been quiet about his anger in finding his journal missing either, and Sam was still harboring deep resentment over both the mountain of lies he had been told as well as the thorough reprimand he was given for going through his father's private bags.

Never one to let a slight go easily, it was more than possible that Sam was feeling a little petty that summer.

Especially since he had recently come to the realization that he wasn't always going to be the center of Dean's universe. Suddenly finding himself having to vie with the bathing beauties for his brother's attention and rapidly coming to the conclusion that he really didn't care for such an unexpected turn of events.

At all

Sam wouldn't have admitted, even under the penalty of torture, that he was jealous of Dean's newfound popularity with the ladies. Nor would he be honest enough to acknowledge that the less than stellar physical attributes of his own scrawny and short for his age body caused him to shy away from any poolside fun that might have been found at the Mayflower with kids his own age.

It didn't matter that no one actually expected the small and shy 10 year-old Sam to compete with his brother on any level.

Except for Sam himself, of course, since he'd always had a mile long competitive streak in him since birth. The result of which had him spoiling for a fight with his brother when Dean hadn't done anything to deserve it for a change.

In a move that set the tone for the rest of the summer, Sam had broken one of the hard and fast rules of the Brother Code.

While he may have been young, he was smart enough to realize that there was a reason why Dean was spending more time in the various motel bathrooms than usual. Sam was a kid, but he wasn't stupid. You tend to learn about sex on a really steep curve when you are raised in a series of pay-by-the-hour motels.

Sensing a perfect opportunity to take a swipe at his perfect older brother, Sam had waited until their father was packed and ready to take off to blurt out the news that his firstborn had helped himself to the Anna Nicole Smith edition of the Playboy that was currently meant to be residing in John's go-bag. If looks could kill, Sam would have already been dead on the floor from the steely eyed glare that his brother sent him behind their father's back that promised nothing good. But Sam was all in, so he stood his ground while the veins in John's temple began to throb from his rising blood pressure.

Now John wasn't the kind of father that ignored the overtly obvious signs that his son was hitting puberty with all the enthusiasm of a drunken sailor on shore leave.

Let's face it, motel rooms tended to be small.

Especially if three people were sharing the usually very tight confines where personal space was non-existent. Poor Sammy had been shooed outside on at least two separate occasions recently to pee behind a bush because Dean couldn't be pulled from the bathroom by an entire sled team of wild dogs if the room was on fire.

John had also recently taken to immediately shelling out the small surcharge for an extra cot during every move because he didn't want Sammy to have to share a bed with his brother anymore as long as there was a chance of the little boy getting a far too close for comfort National Geographic worthy lesson on sex ed in case Dean's hormones made him less discreet than he should be.

If Dean had just asked, his dad would have been more than happy to provide his boy with his own reading materials. Because John had been a 14 year-old boy once too and knew the frenzied needs and primal urges that came in concert with the uncontrollable rash of zits and the unreliable voice pitch when you were living with a bottle rocket in your tighty-whities that prepared itself for launch several times a day like it was auditioning for NASA.

In fact he had thought of it on more than one occasion, but unfortunately time had a way of getting away from him while on the hunt and he'd usually just stumble into their room and collapse from exhaustion long before he could stop by a Gas-N-Sip to hit up their covered magazine rack.

But finding out that Dean was going through his bag without authorization? Well, that was just asking for trouble.

In light of Sammy's revelation, once John's face had returned to a semi-normal color he had decreed that until his return Dean was to spend two hours every morning copying text from three of the most boring lore books known to man that they happened to have floating in the bottom of the Impala's trunk. Something to keep his twitchy hands occupied that didn't include John's illicitly pilfered skin mag.

Dean had thrown a second poisonous stare at his tattletale little brother with so much brewing anger swimming in his snapping green eyes that Sammy almost cried. The little boy hadn't really been thinking clearly of the fallout with Dean when he ratted his brother out. He just wanted a way to get Dean put on lock down so that he would be forced to spend the days with Sam instead of the pool girls who didn't want a little brother tagging along and spoiling their fun.

He should have known that his father wouldn't waste access to a swimming pool when it served a greater purpose in their lives. Putting Dean on lock down not only would deprive Dean of the opportunity to strengthen his muscles but Sam as well since the younger brother wouldn't be allowed out there on his own.

All Sammy had accomplished was getting his brother even more pissed off at him than he already was, which right now was saying something.

So when Dean headed out poolside every day, after his hand had cramped up from the writing he abhorred, Sam fled the five blocks to the small public library instead of doing the mandatory water training. His brother's harshly barked threats and admonishments fading in the distance as he ran down the cracked sidewalks towards the sanctuary of the books he loved. Knowing that there would be a reckoning when their father returned over Sam's disobedience of his fitness training regimen, but caring more about the cold harsh truth that his brother wasn't even bothering to track him down like he usually would.

At the library Sam developed a fascination with a regional display of books on the Stockbridge tribe of Native Americans. He spent hour after hour studying them, eventually branching off into materials on other tribes established throughout New England as the days wore on. More often than not Donna would eventually come looking for him at dinner time. Firmly pulling Sam away to whatever meal she had put together for the brothers so that the kind elderly librarian could close up and head back to her own home at a reasonable hour.

Sam was a big fan of Donna that summer. She was the only one paying any kind of attention to him that didn't include pissed off glares, bitter retorts and barking orders.

In an effort to make her understand why his reading was so important to him when she would gently scold him about his long hours of hiding at the library he had tried several times to enlighten her about John's real work and his determination that his sons would follow in his footsteps. Sadly she seemed to remain unconvinced and Sam wouldn't admit it but he was hurt by the casual dismissal of the person he considered his only ally at the time.

Not that it diminished his fondness of her, but he would have liked to have her believe in the bizarre circumstances of his life. It didn't help that Dean smiled a mile wide every time Donna sweetly praised Sam for his "active imagination" knowing how much Sam hated to be teased.

It felt like summer would never end to Sam. Cut off from the usual academic pursuits of school that he loved and on the outs with his big brother, who at the time was also his best friend, Sam couldn't wait for fall to arrive. Eventually their father had returned for the last time, his work done as much as it would be for the time being, and he collected his boys and headed out of town for a cursed object hunt in Indiana just in time for Sam to start sixth grade.

To say that his father was displeased with Sam's behavior during those couple of weeks was an understatement.

Sam spent much of the next couple of months on heavy lock down and since Dean still wasn't feeling particularly forgiving after his own chastisement for failing to curb his little brother's misbehavior it meant that Sam spent a lot of his time in their various motel rooms on his own. His only companions being new books that he had wheedled out of Uncle Bobby that included a fair amount of Native American lore.

Since then, studying that lore had become somewhat of a hobby.

When he had applied for the coveted internship with Dr. Stilner he certainly had never expected to be chosen. Even after all of the past months at school and all the impressive grades he had earned, Sam still felt very much like an outsider. Not quite good enough to be considered a member of the very elite club of academics that Stanford housed.

Shocked didn't even begin to describe how he felt when Brady had come rushing out to the courtyard where Sam was having his nightly phone call with his phantom brother to share the good news that Dr. Stilner's secretary had left a message on the answering machine of their room phone to offer him the position.

The same secretary that answered the door of the Mission Revival house and beckoned Sam inside with instructions to have a seat and wait for Dr. Stilner herself to finish a call she was on.

Sam was invited to take a seat on one of the bizarrely comfortable looking leather sofas that were covered in plush, colorful throws that Sam recognized as being in the Navajo style. The entire room was warm with polished woods and brightly patterned wall coverings. Various works of art scattered along every surface in a random pattern that wasn't actually random at all. Like the entire room was telling a story to its occupants.

He happened to catch a glance of a shimmering object hanging in one of the windows across from the sofa and realized that it was an incredibly ornate dream catcher. The sharp burst of pain in his chest had him drawing in a quick breath as he remembered all the years that Dean had made sure that the dream catcher they acquired for Sam's nightmares was safely packed in the car before they moved on so it didn't get accidentally left behind.

Now he wondered what had happened to it after his departure last summer.

Was it still carefully hung inside the hidden compartment of the Impala's trunk? Or did his brother just throw it out?

He wasn't sure he actually wanted to know.

There was a heavy scent of incense swirling all around him. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it seemed to be quite calming. Sam knew enough about nefarious uses for the burning of herbs to know that they often signaled spell work being done, but since he also accepted that there were a lot of very New Age-y people among Stanford's academics he didn't suspect anything more than an attempt by his future boss to seem hip and enlightened.

The secretary returned in moment with a steaming cup of something that smelled like herbal tea that she handed to Sam with a smile. He took it politely and gave it a careful sniff when she turned away. Just because he wasn't a hunter any longer didn't mean that he wasn't still careful.

"It's Yaupon."

Sam looked up from his cup and took in a deep breath of appreciation as a beautiful woman with long dark hair hanging down her back glided towards him. She was wearing a flowing dress cinched around the waist with a braided leather belt. Her ears, neck and arms laden with heavy pieces of jewelry made of silver and various colorful stones.

"Do you know what that is?" she continued as she took a seat across from him.

Sam cleared his throat and tried to ignore the way her cat-like movements of curling up on the sofa flashed him a glimpse of the smooth, tanned skin of her shapely leg.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, willing his voice to not stutter. "It's the oldest, native source of caffeine for North America. From a type of holly plant. Also called cassina or 'black drink'. Yaupon is the name in the Catawba language."

She smiled a full sparking white set of teeth that looked almost predatory. The mischievous glint in her blue-gray eyes going straight to his groin. All of a sudden the room was feeling a lot warmer than it had when he first entered.

"Very good, Samuel. It's clear that I've chosen the right young man for the job."

Sam flushed from the praise, and also possibly the blood rushing through his ears from the unexpected wave of desire he was feeling for the woman in front of him. He couldn't explain it. Sure he was a healthy young man after all, but he had never been someone who fell head over heels for a member of the opposite sex as quickly as this.

And never someone who wasn't his own age.

Well, with the exception of Rio.

Sam wasn't about to admit to his childhood crush on the beauty from Top Notch Wrestling. It was enough to have endured the endless teasing from Dean about dragging around the poster of her that Sam had cajoled his father into buying for him that hung over every bed he slept in for almost two years.

"Try it."

Without thinking Sam raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip. At first it tasted similar to green tea, the flavor fairly mild, but almost immediately there was a mingled aftertaste that Sam frowned at as he attempted to dissect it. There was honey added to it to sweeten it, that was obvious, but also an undercurrent of something he didn't recognize. It didn't taste bitter or chemical like a toxin so he wasn't necessarily worried per se, just curious.

After all, Dr. Stilner was a well respected academic. It wasn't likely that she would try to drug a student at their first meeting.

Seeing the frown on his face, Dr. Stilner laughed and reached over the coffee table to take the mug from him. She brought it up to her own mouth and took a very visible sip before handing it back to him, somehow making the gesture a lot hotter than it should have been. Sam's brain felt woozy and he knew that it probably wasn't because of the drink.

"It's good for your focus, Samuel," she said seriously as the secretary came back in and handed her a similar mug. "I suggest you drink it regularly to help with your mental stamina. I'll be requiring you to work long hours here and I know that you also have a full course load with your other studies. I need to make sure that you can give me one hundred percent no matter how much work you have otherwise."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered sheepishly. Embarrassed by what she might have perceived as a lack of professionalism on his part. He was profoundly aware of what an honor it was to be here at all. "I promise to give you my very best."

"Very good," she purred, standing up and smoothing her dress down. "Now drink that up. You're going to need all of your energy when we start tomorrow. Be here at four pm sharp."

Sam didn't even think about it. He immediately obeyed and swallowed down the rest of the mug while she watched. Taking him by the arm, she then escorted him to the door and bid him a friendly farewell.

Caught up in the headiness of the entire encounter and feeling a buzz of energy Sam barely even remembered how he got back to campus.

His new mentor watched him mount the expensive bicycle he had apparently ridden over and speed off down the street. She was pleased with how their first encounter had gone. Her father was right. This one was special.

She strode back into the main room as her secretary came in with questioning eyes. A look between them confirmed that the plan could proceed as hoped.

"I need to make a phone call, Simone."

"Right away, ma'am," the secretary answered as she gave a short bow and quickly retreated into another room.

A moment later she returned, roughly dragging a frightened looking man dressed in the tattered clothes of someone homeless. His blood crusted mouth had been sewn shut and the multitude of bruises around his worn face were in various stages of healing. In her other hand she carried a dagger which she handed to her boss reverently.

The demon took the offered dagger and opened a cupboard where she extracted a large silver goblet decorated with the grotesque faces of its screaming victims. Inside her meat suit the real Amanda Stilner screamed silently as she felt her hand slash the throat of the beaten man and collect the blood bubbling from his throat into the goblet.

The demon smiled with Amanda's mouth and used her fingers to swirl the hot blood to open the path of communication to its unholy father. When the connection was made, it couldn't help the smug satisfaction it felt upon delivering the good news.

"It is done."

/

Henry sat down at one of the smooth wood tables in the library with a pile of slightly faded membership files in front of him. He knew even before opening the first file that it was going to be indescribably painful to leaf through the materials but it had to be done.

If only to begin to get a handle on just how extensive the slaughter had been.

Larry, disappointingly, had obviously given up on his duties as the sole remaining Letter. Choosing to bow to the fear of losing his life in case Abbadon found him again instead of holding the line and protecting generations worth of accomplishments.

The hard truth of the matter was that it wasn't just the members of the Men of Letters who were annihilated before Abbadon, posing as Josie, delivered the coup de grace at Henry's botched initiation.

It was all of the legacies as well.

Members who were not part of the Normal chapter house were slayed in their homes hours before Henry had arrived at 242 Gaines Street that fateful night. Their offspring and their wives with them. Even the families of the men on duty at the bunker were butchered while the men themselves were en route to the ceremony to collect the new members and bring them back to Lebanon for their first on-call rotation.

Larry, the only surviving member, had left these horrific losses to go unanswered in an act of cowardice that shamed the entire organization.

Something which Henry was still finding hard to forgive.

After all it was now clearly apparent that while Larry may have lost his sight during the attack, Henry, without a moment of hesitation, had sacrificed his entire life with his family all to protect the key to the bunker that was being left to rot by the only other surviving member. For Larry to just act like their work and their knowledge didn't matter anymore. For him to seriously suggest that Henry just walk away from it all.

It was a betrayal at the highest level.

But all that was about to change. Contrary to a Ganem, a Winchester never gives up. That's why there's always hope as long as their family line still existed.

Without realizing that he wasn't alone in the room any longer a large tumbler of bourbon appeared at his side, the cut crystal of the glass refracting the rainbow glitter of the overhead lights against the warm oak of the table.

"You look like you could use this."

Henry glanced up and saw the concerned frown on the wood nymph's face. It wasn't that he was thrown by having a supernatural creature treat him like an affectionate grandmother. It was more that this simple act was the first true kindness he had experienced since his arrival in this new time. Not that he could blame his son and grandson for their discomfort and, in John's case, understandable hostility.

But it was nice to have someone notice that Henry himself was hurting.

"Thank you, Mrs. Butters," he said quietly with a tiny smile as he sipped at the glass. The alcohol burned smoothly down his throat and warmed him a little. The bunker wasn't an uncomfortable temperature in the slightest but his entire being had been feeling cold and raw in a way that he didn't begin to know how to fix.

It had been a rough day once they had explained to the resident wood nymph about the initiation night slaughter of the rest of the Men of Letters. She was clearly devastated and Henry felt himself feeling a small measure of gratitude that he wasn't the only one left to mourn his friends. John and Dean had no idea of how much he missed his comrades in arms. It was sadly apparent that neither of them were prone to getting too close to anyone outside of their immediate family.

John was also not pleased with his explanation of what exactly Mrs. Butters was and even less pleased upon finding out just how much magic was used to operate and maintain the bunker. His son was decidedly a purist hunter who only saw the white and black of good and evil without making any kind of allowances for anything in between. One of the annoying traits of hunters in the first place.

It was going to become a problem as Henry began to instruct John in the way of the Letters as he should have done years ago.

For now at least any bloodshed was spared by John's rabid interest in all of the books that the bunker contained. Most of which were the stuff of legend. There at least Henry could see the Winchester side of his son come to the forefront. Of course his boy would be fascinated with the knowledge that came with being a member. It was in his very DNA.

Although Mrs. Butters was still a bit miffed over John's rejection of the lunch she had prepared for them all and wasn't likely to forgive any time soon.

Not one to easily trust, especially something that he felt compelled to kill on principle alone, John had finally allowed Dean to go out and retrieve a couple of pizzas from a small place in town that the two of them ate while Henry feasted on homemade chicken stew and freshly baked biscuits. If only to show his son that the wood nymph meant them no harm.

The first book he pulled from the shelf that he shoved in John's direction explained in very great detail just how much of a non-threat Mrs. Butters was to them.

John had taken a few of the books and holed up in what Mrs. Butters referred to as the archives and Henry was taking the opportunity to begin putting his brothers to rest properly.

So much loss. So many sacrifices.

Henry had made a few sacrifices of his own, but he was at least still alive. The same couldn't be said for the men who had trained him and encouraged him. The men who his father trusted. The ones that regularly kept the world running on an even keel.

He knew now that he was fortunate to be with his beloved son, but clearly John despised him, and every moment in his company was like living the death of a thousand cuts. Not one minute went by since his arrival that he didn't mourn his beautiful wife and long for the unconditional love his small boy had given him just a few days ago in Henry's lifetime.

Leaving him now solely in the company of two hardened men who were complete strangers and who, at the very most, merely tolerated his presence.

The bunker was more than just a place to continue the work of the Letters to Henry at this point. It was a life raft of familiarity in a stormy sea of uncertainty. Hopefully, now that he was back in more comfortable surroundings, Henry could begin the process of acclimating to his new reality.

"I've also pressed your suit and hung it up in the closet in Room 22, which I've prepared for you," she continued as she bustled about the library with a feather duster she pulled out of the air. "A man such as yourself needs something a little more...refined than what you are currently wearing."

Her slight sniff of disapproval had Henry taking a quick glance down at the heavy button up work shirt and the cheaply made khakis he was wearing.

"I appreciate that," he said sincerely, getting a large smile out of her.

He didn't disagree with her. Necessity had demanded a trip with his son to an Army surplus store for clothing yesterday once John had condescendingly assured him that the eleven dollars in 1958 money he had in his wallet were not going to buy anything fancy like his tailored suit. He couldn't wear it forever after all without laundering it and back in his time the cash he had on hand would easily purchase something akin to the casual weekend shirts and slacks Henry had worn during his down time at home.

A couple of days of wearing his son's slightly larger borrowed flannels and jeans were just about all Henry could stomach and he wanted some things of his own.

After being very clear that his own finances were too thin to purchase new impractical garments for his absentee father, John had taken him to shop in a store that was like something out of a doomsday novel.

At ease in his surroundings John had moved swiftly through aisles of weapons and survival gear to pluck items off the clothing racks without too much interest other than size that he thrust into Henry's arms. He didn't even give his father the courtesy of allowing him to try anything on for comfort before shoving a bundle of crumpled bills at the clerk once she had rung up the sale and herding Henry back to his black heap of a truck.

Henry could accept that his actions had earned his son's ire, but it didn't make John's obvious lack of concern for his own father's well being any less painful.

Said son was just making his way into the library as the nymph announced her intention to prepare dinner for the Winchester men. A spring in her step as she flitted off into the direction of the kitchen down the stairs while humming to herself cheerfully. John cast a wary glance in her direction before he picked a book from the shelves behind where Henry was sitting and made a good show of flipping through the pages.

Although Henry could tell that he wasn't actually reading what he was looking through at that rate.

"So. Our clothes aren't refined enough for you, huh?"

Henry wasn't surprised that John had been listening. No one was going to accuse his son of being inattentive to much of anything. Especially in a new place where something could harm his own child. If there was one thing Henry had discerned about his son since his arrival it was that John, while gruff and demanding of his firstborn in the manner of a commanding officer, would without hesitation lay waste to anything that threatened Dean's safety.

If Henry didn't know for a fact that he himself was one the things that John perceived as a threat he would have been extremely proud of his son for his protective nature.

"It's nothing personal, Son," Henry said with a resigned sigh, determined not to pick a fight when he was already feeling low. "It's just a little hard to get used to some of your preferences. Traditionally Winchester men have always been more inclined to a neater style."

John snapped the book he was holding closed, the noise startling Henry and echoing around the cavernous room. Although his mouth was twisted into a smirk, his brown eyes were stormy and his fingers clenched into fists that belied his irritation.

"Yeah, well, this Winchester man didn't really have much of a choice. I needed to hunt down the thing that killed my wife. I also needed to keep my kids fed and a roof over their heads. So I prefer clothing that's warm and sturdy. Which means if I have to camp out I won't freeze to death, or if I get a spirit trying to beat the shit out of me I won't bleed to death. Hunting doesn't pay, Henry. Clothes wear out fast and money can be hard to come by."

There was real vitriol in his voice as he barked at his father but also pain pinched on his face that Henry could see plainly. If Henry was as smart as he liked to think he was he would have recognized the need to sympathize with his son's outburst and offer a sincere apology for the offense, but with all of his defenses down because of the predicament he found himself in his disappointment and frustration bubbled to the surface instead.

"Well then maybe you should have thought about that before you carelessly squandered away your entire inheritance!"

The recrimination came out so aggressively and loud that it brought Henry himself up short and he blinked in surprise as he forced his breeding and manners to kick in and composed himself with some considerable difficulty.

The issue of how rough John and Dean obviously lived had been bothering Henry since the moment he arrived. It was only the sharp pain of loss Henry felt every time he thought of his sweet Millie that kept him from interrogating his son about what had happened to the estate he had left behind for his only child. His deepest fear being the irresponsible doings of the stepfather that had been privileged to raise John when Henry couldn't.

John hadn't mentioned why money was so tight but it was clear that his lack of means was a sore subject that Henry had managed to skirt until now. It didn't help that John's eyes grew wide at the question before he threw his head back and laughed.

"My inheritance?" he bellowed, a maniacal grin on his face. "I don't know what you think Mom was able to get from selling the house years ago, but she did have to provide for us until she got remarried. Even with us living with her parents. I mean, clearly you don't have a clue about the differences in the cost of living over time, but it certainly wasn't enough to last her, let alone me."

Hearing his father's raised voice echoing through the hallways brought Dean into the room at a jog. It must have been even louder than Henry thought considering that his grandson had pounced on the garage full of antique vehicles they found far away on the lower level with the delight of a toddler and hadn't emerged for almost an hour. John's words took Henry aback and he frowned as he tried to make sense of what he was saying.

"The house? The house was nothing. I'm talking about your trust fund and the rest of my estate."

John laughed again which was really beginning to annoy his father and he and Dean exchanged amused looks for some incomprehensible reason.

"My trust fund?" John snorted derisively. He playfully nudged Dean in the chest and they both shared a laugh. "You hear that, Son? My trust fund."

They continued to chuckle to themselves until John let out a deep exhale. "Yeah, I never got the memo about a trust fund, Henry. I'm pretty sure that Mom would have told me about that little piece of information. Especially since I know how much it humiliated her to have to ask my grandparents to support us after you ran off. But thanks for the laugh, anyway."

Henry scowled and began to pace the room as he furiously pondered the information his son was giving him. If what John was saying was true, something terrible had happened and he needed to find out what it was.

Like all Men of Letters legacies he had made quite sure that his wife and child would be very well provided for specifically in the event that he was taken from them without notice. There were long standing procedures in place to protect widows and children in worst case scenarios. Of course the entire infrastructure of the society had been destroyed that terrible night but one living member had survived. Someone who had knowledge and authority to ensure that the wheels of the organization kept turning smoothly as all of their safeguards were implemented to ensure.

Any ranking Man of Letters would have access to the necessary financial tools to protect survivors. It also just so happened that Larry was not only a ranking member, he was also the one that Henry had personally entrusted to oversee the Winchester estate as his proxy in the event of Henry's death. Wounded or not, Larry had been bound by generations of duty to see to the comfort of Millie and John as well as to take John under his wing to train him in the way of the Letters.

Henry might have been willing to overlook the lack of mentoring in John's education as a lapse in judgment because of the trauma Larry had suffered. Withholding Henry's estate from his wife and child was a betrayal on an altogether different level.

The very idea that his only son had been deprived not only of his rightful legacy of knowledge about his birthright but financial security as well was too much for him to bear or forgive.

"I need to see Larry immediately," he demanded as he stopped short in front of his son. "Would it be possible to drive me back to his house? Or could you at least kindly help me start one of the automobiles in the garage? I'm afraid my mechanical skills are not as honed as I might wish them to be."

While John huffed and shook his head as he crossed his arms over his chest another clash was prevented by Dean's quick thinking intervention from seeing his father's temper begin to spike.

"C'mon, Henry. I'll take you. Dad wants to keep looking through the lore books. Right, Dad?"

John gave his son a squinty-eyed stare without much heat, not really interested in prolonging a pissing contest with his father over some weird delusion that Henry was holding onto that he'd somehow taken care of his family before abandoning them.

"Right, Dad?" Dean said again, a little more forced this time as he reached for his jacket and keys.

John was spared an answer by the overly cheerful Mary Poppins that he still didn't trust bounding out from the kitchen carrying linen and dishes to set up a dinner table on the furthest library table from the entry.

"Dinner's almost ready!" Mrs. Butters announced in a sing-songy voice as she giggled and unfurled a white tablecloth with a sharp snap. "You poor things look starved and I make a fabulous pot roast."

Henry was already impatiently halfway up the stairs when John finally nodded his assent to his son. "Keep your guard up, Boy. I don't trust that Ganem guy."

Dean pulled on his jacket, making sure that his father saw his Colt nestled in the interior pocket and checked that he had his blade in the holster around his ankle. "Yes, sir. You do the same with creepy Mrs. Doubtfire."

John smirked and gave his son an affectionate slap on the back. "Strange times, kiddo." Dean smiled at him with Mary's smile and shrugged. "Just another day at the office."

Cruising uneasily in the Impala Dean and Henry didn't speak on the drive over to Larry's house. It wasn't a long trip to be fair. Lebanon was just a tiny town of only a couple of hundred people and the handful of houses weren't really spread all that far apart in distance. Besides the mystical benefit of being the geographical center of the continental United States, its remote and fairly undisturbed location was a good choice to put something that you didn't want easily found.

Henry was too angry at his old mentor to wonder why Larry had bothered living so close to something he couldn't access and now apparently didn't even want used. He was more concerned about why someone that he had considered a friend, a good friend, would have not taken the time to see to it that Millie and John were properly cared for.

After all Henry had done for the Letters, he couldn't help the anger he felt that it was the very least he was owed.

Being close to dinner time the winter sun had already set and it was dark outside when they pulled up in front of Larry's gray Victorian house. The lights were on and Henry could see Larry's wife through the picture window as she put a covered dish on the dining table. He had only met Susan a few times before the night of his initiation. Wives were rarely part of the social life that the Letters had with each other, but once upon a time Susan had been kind to Millie after she and Henry were first married. Helping the younger woman get settled in their new house and then with the new baby.

Belatedly, Henry remembered that Larry and Susan had lost a son to leukemia as a young boy and they had never had another child to the best of his knowledge. It gave him a moment of pause. Although John was estranged from him at the moment, Henry at least appreciated the fact that his boy was still alive and there was still time for them to reconcile.

He didn't know what he would have done if he had found himself in Larry's position. His beloved son gone forever.

It was enough to stay his rage for the moment and give his old friend a chance to adequately explain his actions.

As the two Winchester men walked across the street and up the stone path to the front porch they could see Larry finding his way to the table through the window. You probably wouldn't even be able to tell he was blind by his movements. Clearly years without his sight had given him plenty of time to adjust. For a quick second Henry wondered if his old mentor had even tried something a little more on the unorthodox side of medicine to improve his loss of vision.

It wasn't as if there weren't any number of spells that might at least boost his senses.

Seeing the impatient scowl on Henry's face as he peered through the window Dean raised his hand and gave the front door three firm raps. Not necessarily loud enough for the neighbors to hear and wonder about, but enough to get the attention of the occupants inside the house. A moment later they could hear the soft footsteps of Susan Ganem come to the door and then a fixture above them flipped on and bathed them in a bright light. She looked through one of the glass panes in the door and hid the quick frown that betrayed her displeasure at seeing them again so soon before opening up.

"Henry," she said with forced politeness, "How nice to see you again. Please come inside. We were just about to have dinner."

His grandfather was distracted and didn't seem to notice that their arrival was clearly unwelcome, but Dean did and was immediately on his guard against strangers that just might have hidden resources to use against the Winchesters in case this visit turned ugly. He pasted a smile on his face while covertly brushing the inside of his jacket and taking the safety off his weapon as they walked through the door into the living room.

"Larry dear, Henry is back to see you," Susan called, never taking her eyes off the two men standing in her house. "He's brought someone with him."

Henry cleared his throat and slightly dipped his head in polite greeting. "My apologies, Susan. This is my grandson Dean. John's oldest boy."

Susan couldn't hide the look of spoiled milk that crossed over her face. Henry could guess right away that she was most likely thinking of her own son and the grandchildren that would never be. He was a decent enough man to feel a small iota of compassion for her loss even if her husband was most likely responsible for at least some of the hardships that John and his family were forced to endure.

By this time Larry had made his way into the living room. He didn't seem at all surprised by Henry's return visit which only confirmed Henry's suspicions that his old friend had been less than faithful to him all these years.

"Please sit down Henry," Larry said calmly as he took a seat in the dark brown wingback chair that faced the cream sofa. "I knew once you decided to use the key that you would be back. It's a long story."

Larry reached up to where he knew Susan hovered next to him and clasped her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. She gave the Winchesters one more indecipherable look and then excused herself and retreated into the back of the house, leaving the men alone in awkward silence.

"Susan and I were on the run for over two years after that night," Larry began in his craggy voice hardened by time. He rubbed his chin between his index finger and thumb, his blind eyes gazing at the nothingness in the direction of the floor. "Susan only survived because she was at the neighbor's house for their weekly game of bridge. When she arrived home and found our house in shambles she knew something terrible had happened. Immediately she drove to the rendezvous point we had planned years earlier for such an event."

Larry paused here, taking a few seconds to let the memories of the past wash over him. The pain on his face wasn't manufactured and Henry restrained a bitter retort on the tip of his tongue to prod his former friend into hurrying up with his story.

"I was badly wounded, of course, but not fatally. Abbadon was more concerned with following you, Henry, than finishing me off. Her goal was obtaining the box and she knew that you had it. I'm sure she thought she would have ample opportunity to come back and kill me once she took care of you. I'm ashamed to admit that my fear got the better of me that night. I felt powerless without my eyes knowing that everyone in the room with me was dead. I froze."

Susan came back in carrying a tray laden with a china tea service and cups. She set it on the coffee table in front of them, poured three cups of something that smelled sweetly of orange, dropped a cube in one of the cups and gently placed it in her husband's right hand. He smiled up at her lovingly, taking her hand in his free one and giving it a kiss before she retreated again.

Dean hungrily eyed the frosted sugar cookies on the tray, his stomach growling a reminder that he should be eating supernaturally made pot roast at the bunker right now. However, he wasn't a complete fool. He didn't trust Larry or his beady eyed wife as far as he could throw them. Henry seemed to feel the same way since he steadfastly ignored the steaming cup closest to him as well.

"It wasn't easy, getting away," Larry continued as he took a sip of his tea. "I had faith in you, Henry. You were always such a promising student and so much like your father. Eric Winchester was a legend in the organization from my earliest days. I knew you would find a way to keep the key safe. I could hear you in the lab and I immediately knew what you were planning. The house had a fail safe mechanism in place. One incantation and it would incinerate everything inside. Once I was sure you were safely away I dragged myself outside and triggered the fail safe. I woke up in the hospital three days later."

Larry leaned over toward the coffee table and set his cup down with a shaky hand. As much as Henry wanted to tear into his old mentor, seeing the obvious fragility of the man helped to keep his temper in check. He couldn't help the past and while it was good to find out the details of what had happened to their chapter house after his trip through time, it wasn't the reason he was here.

"You were supposed to look after my family, Larry," he snapped, a bit more harshly than he had intended. Emotions weren't a good excuse to ignore his lifetime of good breeding and manners. "I trusted you to do that, or I never would have left."

"You're right, Henry," Larry whispered sadly. "I'm ashamed to admit now that I didn't do right by Millie and John. At the time I justified my actions by telling myself that if Abbadon or one of her lieutenants were tracking the money that it would lead them right to your family. By then I already knew that our numbers had been wiped out. That your son was the only remaining legacy. I told myself that I was protecting them by not going to them once I was out of the hospital and had reunited with Susan."

"Horseshit," Henry snapped again. His profanity made Dean's eyes go wide as the young man saw another side to his grandfather. "Millie and John went right to her family. They could have been found there in a blink of an eye. You left them out in the open. Unprotected. Without the resources they were entitled to. You were only thinking about your own hide. You didn't go to them because you didn't want to be found yourself."

Larry didn't respond to the stinging tirade. Time and old age had drawn away much of his former energy and resolve. He slowly raised himself up from the chair and shuffled over to the fireplace. Lifting up the small candelabra that sat on the mantle he extracted a small key from underneath it and then returned to his chair.

"Take this," he said, holding the key out in Henry's direction. "It belongs to a safe deposit box at the bank on Main Street in the name of Herbert G Wells. I'm assuming that John can acquire an ID in that name for you?"

Henry cast a quick glance at his grandson who nodded easily. He took the offered key and slipped it into in the front pocket of his work shirt and buttoned it closed.

"Yes."

"It's all in there," Larry continued. "All the paperwork you entrusted to me as well as the necessary documents for the whole organization. I was confident you survived, Henry. I always planned on giving it all to you when you found me again. It was why I arranged the grave and the story about the fire. I just didn't expect it to take this long. Everything belongs to you now."

Henry stood up and motioned for Dean to follow him. He gave his old mentor a hard stare that he knew the man could not see and took a deep breath to push back his ire.

"I can't forgive you for this, Larry. I think you know that," he said finally. "My son needed you when I couldn't be there for him. He suffered things that irrevocably changed him for the worse. What's more, he spent his entire life thinking that I had abandoned him and his mother. He should have been told the truth. About me. Our work. His birthright."

Larry nodded his head sadly and cleared his throat, staring off into space. "I thought he would be safer out of the game. That's the truth. The one thing I did know was that Abbadon was a hired gun. I could only hope that whoever held her leash would have been waiting for you to show up at Millie and John's doorstep with the box and that as long as John didn't show any sign of being a threat, they might be allowed to live in peace until that happened."

Henry shook his head, distaste clearly on his face.

"You keep telling yourself that. The truth is you were only worried about yourself. In a time of crisis, when you should have been holding the line, you hid like a coward. And my wife and son paid the price. You are a disgrace to the organization, Larry. If the years had not already been unkind to you, I'd kill you myself. Let's go, Dean. We're done here."

Shocked into silence by his grandfather's uncharacteristic outburst, Dean simply did as he was told and followed Henry out to the car. The older man was still shaking with rage while they drove the short distance back to the bunker and Dean couldn't help the realization that there was certainly an element of his grandfather that reminded him very much of the tough son of a bitch that his own father was.

/

Gwen struggled through the door of the small apartment in one of the seedier student housing complexes. Her hands were full of the shopping she had done after her shift in the university library and all she wanted to do was have a little dinner, a few beers and kick back with some crap cable for a while.

The tiny kitchen in the unit that she shared with her cousin Christian was significantly nicer than her own place back in Michigan even if the building itself was considered low end for the area. Of course with what she and Christian were paying in rent it wasn't exactly cheap either. Those Stanford University paychecks that Ash had finagled were coming in handy. Dropping her bags on the faux marble countertop she took a minute to flex the stiffness out of her fingers from carrying them so far.

Christian worked later than she did, plus he had rounds to do for Uncle Robert around campus, so he was the one that had their shared vehicle most of the time. Gwen had to make due with the six block walk to the nearest stop for the city bus that took her back and forth to Stanford every day. Although, considering how late she was getting back today, she should have made him come to pick her up no matter how much he would have bitched about it. He'd been like that since they were kids so she was used to him by now.

There were times when her cousin really got on her nerves. It was already frustrating enough that the three of them, with Mark on campus full time, were assigned this profoundly annoying security detail in the first place instead of going on regular hunts where they could be of actual use. Sam was a nice kid and all, but he was as vanilla as they came, nothing particularly unusual or dangerous about him that she could see. Why it took three seasoned Campbell hunters to keep eyes on him she had no idea.

But when Uncle Robert gives you an assignment you don't say no. It was the fastest way to get yourself put on permanent grunt duty in the family. As much as the babysitting sucked, there were worse jobs she could have been given. At least California had some nicer perks than the cold, harsh winters of Michigan. Not that it was particularly warm today as her still cold hands could testify as she unpacked her grocery bags.

She pulled a handful of frozen dinners out of a bag and put aside one that contained Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. Raised by a widowed father on TV dinners and take-out, no one was ever going to accuse her of being a good cook and she had no real desire to learn.

She was a hunter.

Every bit as capable as the males of her generation. If they weren't sweating the domestic life she didn't see why she needed to either. If the time ever came for her to marry she assumed it would be another hunter approved by the family. Her lack of talent in the kitchen wouldn't come as a shock.

Ripping open the packaging she grabbed a fork from the dish drainer, poked a few holes in the plastic wrap and then shoved it inside the built-in microwave and punched in the right buttons to get it heating. The rest of the meals she threw in the freezer with some of the ones that Christian preferred next to the first aid cold packs and a half empty bottle of Absolut. A quick rummage in the fridge produced a bottle of El Sol that she popped the top off before flopping down on the sofa and flipping on the television.

Christian came barreling in the door in his usual brash manner just as the microwave dinged. Grunting out a half-hearted greeting he dropped his small weapons bag on the floor next to the sofa with little regard to the dangerous contents. A careless habit that had provoked more than one fight between the cousins as Gwen didn't fancy catching stray shrapnel because her cousin was a moron. Biting her tongue against a sharp rebuke she settled for rolling her eyes in agitation as he pushed past her propped up legs on the coffee table and shoved his way into the small kitchen.

"Aw, you have dinner ready for me? Thanks honey!"

Defensive of her recently scavenged meal Gwen stood up and wrestled him away from the microwave as she pulled out the steaming container and let it fall to the counter before she burned herself. "Get your own, Conan," she snarled as Christian tried to get her into a headlock. "I'm not your little kitchen bitch."

He laughed in a way that predictably irritated her as he held his hands up in surrender and got out of her way. Once she had the plastic container on a plate and the fork from earlier in her hands she stalked back over to the sofa and sat back down while her cousin grabbed a beer for himself and a container of leftover Chinese. He collapsed into the seat next to her and pulled out a cold egg roll that he took a giant bite out of, chewing with his mouth open just to be a pig.

"Mark came through with the info for that new location we have to scout," Christian told her as he spewed specks of cabbage down his front. "Uncle Robert isn't going to be pleased that we have another offsite property to guard."

Gwen took a gravy covered bite of her meat patty and shrugged, giving him the courtesy of swallowing completely before speaking. "Not much we can do about it. The kid is going to do what he wants as long as John lets him stay here."

Christian's face morphed into an icy glare at the reminder. "I'm still tempted to just grab the little bastard and frog march him back to his family where he belongs," he grouched. "What makes him so fucking special that he gets to play Joe Civilian while the rest of us bust our asses to keep him and the other sheep safe?"

It was an argument that the cousins had had many times since their arrival. Gwen didn't even try to argue Sam's side of the case anymore although she did like the kid well enough.

To be honest lately it pissed her off too.

It wasn't like she didn't have dreams and plans of her own, but unlike the Winchesters a Campbell knew what their duty was. To the family. To the hunting community. The job came first and you watched out for your family at all times. It's how so many of them continued to survive in a rough life.

At least in her case it was only herself that she had to worry about. As much as Christian pushed her buttons she did feel bad for the long distance between him and his girl. Arlene was nice enough and Christian was loyal to her. She knew it was killing him to be so far from her in case of trouble. It was one of her cousin's few positive attributes.

"Doesn't matter," she reminded him. "As long as Uncle Robert tells us to stay here, that's what we do. Wanna go out later and do a night recon of the new place?"

Christian took a swig of his beer and then stuffed the rest of the egg roll in his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, might as well. Who knows? We might run into one of our usual playmates. All of this babysitting has me itching to kill something."

/

John sat at the desk in the bedroom he had claimed for himself in the Bunker. The door was propped open just enough that he could hear Dean's drunken snores from the room next door. While he could understand that the kid needed his own space, John wasn't comfortable enough to have his son too far away just in case this little clubhouse had more surprises in store for them.

The wood nymph had obviously been in here earlier if the fresh scents of newly laundered sheets and blankets and polished wood were any indication. A long phone call to Singer about the unexpected occupant of their new home base confirmed Henry's declaration that the overly cheerful creature was more or less harmless as long as their home was not being threatened. It was in their nature to vehemently protect their homes and the occupants thereof.

Clearly the Men of Letters, including John and Dean as legacies thereof, were considered by Mrs. Butters to be her family and as such were under the umbrella of her considerable safety and care.

Of course John would remain on his guard, but right now he was just this side of tired and overwhelmed enough with the earth shattering revelations to categorize her threat assessment on the lower level of concern at the moment.

There was a half empty bottle of Patron Silver in front of him. After the day he'd had he didn't even bother to grab a glass. It wouldn't be the first time he drank straight from the bottle and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Next to the tequila was an impressive pile of bank statements, investment portfolios and passbooks. The amount of zeros on the documents in front of him were making him dizzy and more than a little sick to his stomach.

It felt like he was living in a strange fantasy. Mysterious father, back from the dead. Super secret societies with super secret hideouts. Complete with supernatural housekeepers that anticipated your needs before you knew yourself. Obscene lost family fortunes maintained by an entire shadow banking and investment system that he had only heard crazy tin foil hat whispers of in all his long years of hunting.

It was just all too much.

Like waking up one day only to realize that everything you ever thought you knew about yourself was just plain wrong.

With what John now held in his hands he could give his children everything.

Truly everything.

What had been a few large fortunes in 1958 had swollen considerably over time when they hadn't been touched in decades. The interest alone was staggering. More than John could have ever conceived of having in a hundred lifetimes.

Realistically he knew he should have been giddy like Dean had been upon finding out. The discovery of resources that would completely alter their incredibly difficult lives only for the better. Where dangerous risks didn't need to be taken to make sure they had housing for the night. Where replacement parts for their aged vehicles didn't mean choosing between the ability to drive to the next gig and having enough to eat after getting there. Skipping out on hospital bills after getting broken bones set before the fake insurance could be flagged.

But the truth was, John was simply angry over it all.

The voice in the back of his mind gratingly insisting that it was too little, too late.

This money would have made all the difference in the world when his boys were growing up. Sadly although he knew now that nothing would have stopped Mary's murder, demon deals were fairly absolute after all, what happened after could have been drastically different.

Money like this would have meant total stability and security for his kids in their formative years. Sure they would have still traveled. John genuinely believed that he was meant to become the hunter that was he today. Nothing was going to change that especially in light of what had been done to his tiny son all those years ago.

But money would have meant better housing than the fleabag motels and abandoned houses they squatted in occasionally.

It could have meant a vetted, full time nanny to travel with them and to care for them when he had to be away. Someone whose sole purpose was to provide the things that Mary had that John wasn't capable of giving to the degree they deserved. Someone who could have given them comfort when they were sick and hurting and John couldn't be there.

Someone who could have watched over them so Dean didn't have to grow up so fast into the tough young man he was today.

Someone who could have nurtured Sam enough that he didn't feel the need to flee from his own family because he hated their rough, nomadic lifestyle.

Money would have meant toys and clothing that didn't come from second hand stores that got his kids teased when it was already hard enough to hop from school to school. Generous food budgets to keep his kids full during their crazy growth spurts that didn't sometimes rely on food pantries or outright theft. Where Dean didn't feel the need to hustle to buy a jar of peanut butter and get himself put in a boys home for months. Where John didn't have to choose between recreational activities and sports for his kids and the weapons and ammunition he needed to keep them safe.

As much as he didn't like it at the time, John could admit now that Dean did a really incredible thing to give Sam a year of as close to normal living as he could have and Sam had clearly thrived. Money could have ensured an earlier normal home life where Dean might have been able to blossom in areas other than hunting as well.

It had never been that John didn't want that for his kids. Of course he did.

It was always the knowledge that it was dangerous for them to stay put in one place for too long. Too many times John had barely kept his kids one step ahead of something catastrophic. More than either of the boys ever knew or would ever find out. John had always felt the evil, hot breath on the back of his neck as he repeatedly fled one place to the next with his kids in tow.

Now he knew for sure that the dark forces that wanted his baby boy had been pursuing the little family for years.

Money would have meant the ability to easily go to ground if something had come for his children in the dead of night as John long feared. Hell, this damn bunker with all of its built in protections and almost psychotically happy resident caretaker would have been the perfect place to hole up when things got hot if he'd actually known about it.

Now he had money. Apparently lots of it.

But it wasn't going to change the fact that Sam was still gone and John wasn't sure his youngest would ever be willing to come back into the fold. Especially after that last terrible day together.

It wasn't going to change the fact that Dean had developed a reckless indifference to his own well being and a host of unhealthy coping mechanisms to get through the job they did every day.

It didn't change the fact that John blamed himself for his failures as a father every single minute of every single day. Or even change the fact that he would do the same all over again if it meant that both of his kids were still alive and well today.

After reading through the impressive pile of materials John came to the conclusion that if he wasn't so bitter about everything that his children had been deprived of growing up when there apparently was a King Solomon sized fortune waiting for him to access it, he might have just been a little impressed with the careful planning and efficiency of the Winchester clan over the years.

According to Henry, the Winchester men were devoted not just to the Men of Letters ideals and practices but also to the security and longevity of their own family line to ensure that membership would continue in perpetuity. Their combined fortunes accrued over generations were passed on with much careful planning and forethought to their descendants' comfort and ability to marry, procreate and prosper. The estates themselves skipping every other generation in order to allow inheritances to grow untouched.

For example, the money that now belonged to John had once been the fortune of his grandfather Eric. After Eric's untimely death, the bulk of his estate was put into trust for any children of Henry's with enough left to his widow to maintain herself and Henry in a more than comfortable lifestyle. On Henry's 21st birthday he was given control of his own considerable trust fund that was comprised of the lion's share of his grandfather's estate

Normally the trust funds for the grandchildren were just enough to get them handsomely started in life but because the death of Henry's grandfather had preceded his own birth, and by virtue of being the only grandchild of that generation, Henry had been given access to his entire inheritance at age 21. Accordingly, after he had control of the funds, tradition dictated that a generous amount of that inheritance be set aside for future trust funds of his own grandchildren.

And so on, and so on.

It was a system used by all of the Men of Letters for their families and it usually worked very well. Of course each generation had its own burdens and challenges which necessitated changes in how the traditions were carried out.

War had not been kind to the Winchester men.

Eric's father wasn't killed by his service in WWI but the injuries he sustained while serving did shorten his lifespan considerably. He had already passed away before Henry was born. Of course John, who until recently had no knowledge of his Winchester ancestors, now knew that his grandfather Eric was killed in the line of duty in WWII. There was just enough of a hint of pride in himself in having chosen to carry on the Winchester family tradition, even if he didn't know it at the time, to help soothe a touch of John's bitterness over his own time in Vietnam.

With Henry's disappearance of the past few decades and all other Winchester men already deceased what this translated into was that the Winchester family fortune, having gone unused for a couple of generations, was even larger and more impressive today than it would have otherwise been.

The secret access information that the documentation had provided made it possible for an appointment to be made for next week with the shadow world bankers headquartered in Chicago. Henry had only been to their offices on one other occasion in his life when he originally took control of his fortune. These weren't the kind of people that offered frequent invitations. The Men of Letters had used their services since the very beginning of banking in general and it had always been understood that the bankers themselves maintained a strict protocol of discretion and neutrality.

Because it was also common knowledge in their very private and privileged circles that they were also the bankers for a large number of high ranking supernatural creatures as well.

For about two seconds John had considered how valuable the information he could collect on his prey would be once he was granted access to a heretofore prohibited arena before he dismissed the idea just as quickly. A hunter could track and kill the average skinwalker or werewolf and be paid little notice in the grand scheme of things.

But mess with the money of the supernatural elite? There was no hiding from that, and John wasn't about to risk his sons' safety to try.

Dean's eyes had popped almost entirely out of his skull when seeing the account totals on the documents that Henry had retrieved from the bank with the key from Ganem's house, especially after Henry had pointed out that the documents themselves looked to be at least a few years out of date so the totals were likely higher still.

Like a kid in a candy store Dean had immediately begun constructing a list of all the things he wanted to do with his share, up to and including buying one or several professional sports teams and his own bar in every state.

One stern look from his father had the kid crashing back down to Earth with a dopey grin on his face but it hadn't stopped him from running out to the liquor store in town and buying a case of Johnnie Walker Black and another one of the Patron Silver to celebrate. As they hadn't accessed the money yet John could only just imagine what a hit Dean's personal bank account took for that purchase since he knew their current scammed credit cards were just about maxed out.

After an evening of revelry that ended with his firstborn waltzing around the map table in the war room with a very flustered Mrs. Butters and singing Pink Floyd's Money at the top of his lungs, John had finally grabbed the kid by his collar and put him to bed fully clothed and smelling like he got hit by a whiskey truck.

Henry had made a few attempts to speak with his son about their change in circumstances but there was still a lot John needed to process before he could have that particular conversation. He knew that his father desperately wanted to make amends and it was clear that this new found wealth was meant to be the beginning of bridging the gap between them. John set aside his personal resentment for Henry for a few seconds to acknowledge his realization that his father wasn't guilty of every bad thing he had ever thought about him, but there was still a very long way to go.

Still obviously angry and feeling betrayed by his former friend it wasn't long before Henry had also retired to his room to stew in private. When the wood nymph's efforts to clean up the mess Dean's one man celebration had left behind started to grate on John's nerves he grabbed all the paperwork and headed for his own room to begin to map out what their next steps should be.

Eventually his anger began to recede and with a clearer coherency he grabbed an old notepad from the top drawer of the desk and a pen and started to write feverishly.

/

Toledo, Ohio wasn't where a lot of people would want to be in the middle of February. The cold, often brutal lake effect weather from its proximity to Lake Erie could be downright miserable. Harsh winds, freezing rain and regular large dumps of snow were more the rule than the exception.

Dean wasn't a delicate flower by any means but after a couple of days spent tearing apart an abandoned factory with no heat in the middle of blizzard conditions he was pretty much sure that he really hated his job.

Caleb had called John a few days ago for some help on a hunt. Four people had turned up dead in the Toledo area in the past two weeks with identical coroner reports. All of them had been found with circular bruising around their mouths, having choked to death on their own blood. Although there was no obvious reason for the trauma readily seen during the examination, something had done unspeakable damage to their interiors.

Even the hardened doctor, who had seen just about every horror you could imagine, had trouble keeping his lunch down when showing the bodies to Caleb.

There didn't seem to be any clear connection between the victims and Caleb was stumped. Another poor soul had been brought in the night of his visit to the coroner's office and Caleb sent out the bat signal for a pair of fresh eyes on the case before the bodies really started to pile up.

John would have been happy to go but he and Henry had their appointment with the shadow bankers in Chicago and they were not the sort that you canceled on. Considering that Dean was forbidden from joining them, which pissed him off to no end because he wanted to have his father's back, John decided the best thing to do was to send his surly firstborn out on a job to get his head back on straight.

Only primary account holders were granted entrance to the bankers' offices to keep the number of visitors down to an absolute minimum. While Dean would be the beneficiary of a trust fund that they administered, John, as the trustee, would be handling all in person contact.

Dean had expressed his displeasure extremely clearly before doing as he was told and heading off for Ohio. It had been quite a while since he had seen Caleb anyway and getting a little space from the constant tension between his father and grandfather was probably going to be good for all of them.

It took a little over a day conducting in person interviews and scouring computer files before Dean made the connection. Each of the victims had worked in a fiberglass factory during the same six month period almost fifteen years ago. During this time another worker had gone missing and was never found.

The interviews that Dean conducted with other former employees made it clear that the missing worker was universally detested. He had a perpetually bad attitude and shoddy work ethic. His careless use of machinery had endangered the people working around him on more than one occasion yet management refused to fire him. The entire factory breathed a sigh of relief when he disappeared.

Dean had seen this movie before. More digging revealed that the douchebag was the illegitimate son of the factory owner. Someone who had been in and out of jail for multiple counts of assault before being handed the job as a guilty consolation prize by a disinterested father. Realizing that the guy was going nowhere and likely to get an innocent person killed, some of the workers had taken matters into their own hands.

A search through the abandoned factory found that the bruising around the mouths was the perfect size of a hose for an insulation blower.

The rest of the story wasn't hard to guess.

A recent cave in of two of the skylights of the factory from the weight of a heavy ice storm had disturbed the hidden remains of the man that a group of his co-workers had tortured to death during a graveyard shift. Dean had to hand it to them. They had done a pretty good job of concealing their crime and it was only a freak accident of the elements that unearthed the evidence.

Unfortunately the same accident had released a super pissed off spirit.

With half the factory falling down around them already, finding the bones was a slow and delicate task that reminded Dean too much of the work he did on The Pile in NYC the previous fall which brought on its own avalanche of unhappy memories. Cold and miserable and ready for this case to be over, Dean and Caleb warmed their hands over the fire of the burning bones and made plans to go out for the evening.

Too late Dean realized that it was Valentine's Day by the time they got to the nearest bar.

Normally the sea of love-starved singles slowly getting comfortably numb as they yearned for a little human contact would have been just what the doctor ordered for Dean's irritable mood. He would have eagerly pounced on the first woman in his line of sight that had that special look in her eyes that meant she was game for just about anything.

Caleb certainly had no problem obliging a brunette in a leopard print mini-skirt and five inch heels who was sucking on a maraschino cherry like it was her job. The wink he threw Dean as he made his way over to her a clear sign that they wouldn't be seeing each other again for the foreseeable future.

Although Dean had come to this bar specifically looking for a little company for the evening, once he had found himself there his interest quickly waned on what was usually one of his favorite nights of the year. Sam used to tease him about his Valentine's Day exploits. His shy little brother would be sitting at the table of their motel du jour, his shaggy head buried in a massive stack of textbooks while he gave Dean a smirk and sent him off for the evening with instructions to "release the Kraken!"

And Dean would.

Later (much later) he would return to the motel and assure Sammy that he had done his duty and given several lovely ladies the night of their lives. Grinning and wagging his eyebrows to get a laugh out of the kid who was still innocent enough to blush over just the implication of how his brother had spent the hours since he left the motel.

But that was a different time. A decidedly different phase in Dean's life.

With Sammy's departure and Henry's arrival. The discovery of the bunker and significant change in Dean's future prospects. The anticipation of the new project that Dad had sketched out and exciting possibilities of a vastly improved method to their hunting lives.

Dean was just a different person than he used to be.

You can't go through that much upheaval and not have it make a profound impact on your day-to-day outlook.

He had already been feeling it last fall even if he didn't realize exactly what it was. The few weeks he had spent with Cassie had really been setting the stage for a dramatic shift in how he viewed his future. When he could see a life outside of hunting with maybe a wife and a couple of kids. A regular home to come back to that wasn't just him on his own.

Maybe if things had stayed at status quo and he returned to hunting full time and continued to wander from place to place he might have let the momentary dream he had of a more stable lifestyle evaporate.

But that's not what had happened.

Sure the hunting had continued. Probably always would because Dean genuinely believed in what he was doing. But he also had a home that he loved that was always clean and cozy and familiar. A place at the salvage yard to do something that didn't involve killing. Now he also had a connection to his father's side of the family and a birthright to explore. New and exciting tools and information to use in the field.

He was a Winchester, and while that name alone held a certain pride for him just because he had always seen his father as a hero who helped people, he also now knew that he was a part of something much bigger, passed down through time from father to son for generations.

It made him feel that he wasn't just a guy who was going to get his guts ripped out by age thirty.

And maybe, just maybe, it was okay to want something more than a lifetime of one-night stands, cheap booze and a body full of scars.

He left the bar alone and wandered back to his motel. Not even stopping by the Gas-N-Sip on the corner for a six pack to bring back with him. Although he had showered before heading out for the evening, just being in the cigarette smoke clogged meat market made him feel dirty all over again.

Caleb wouldn't be coming back at least until the following morning so he had the place to himself. He shed his clothes and ambled into the bathroom, turning the shower on as hot as he could get it and climbed inside. The nearly scalding water pounded down on his upturned face as he repeatedly lathered up and scrubbed himself in a subconscious effort to wash away the filth his mind felt his body was covered in.

As if he could purify himself of years of hard living as well as fight the chill of the past few days.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of who he was and what he had done. On the contrary, he was proud of the work that his family did and he saw nothing wrong with the sports sex that generally defined his romantic life. He'd never done anything with a woman without her explicit consent and always paid particular attention to detail to ensure that she was left happy with their encounter. Of course he wasn't even close to being truthful with the vast majority of ladies he'd had the pleasure of, but he'd also never taken real advantage of them either.

Maybe it wasn't necessarily a high bar that he set for his personal relationships, but there were plenty of much worse people out there and Dean would always pride himself on being someone who would do whatever he could to leave any kind of situation better than he had found it.

As Dean suspected, Caleb didn't make an appearance until just before check-out the next day. Coming into their shared room, grinning like a fool and smelling of sex and an assortment of ladies perfumes. Dean just smiled at his buddy, happy that he had enjoyed himself. Not enough of a hypocrite to lay his own newly found set of morals on someone that spent an evening doing something that Dean had himself many many times. He dodged Caleb's questions about his own evening while they packed up, exchanged a warm brotherly hug in the parking lot and set off in different directions.

Stopped at the traffic light that would take him to the on-ramp for I-90, the most direct route from Toledo back to the bunker, Dean made a decision.

Heading west on I-90 would also take him directly to Chicago where his father and grandfather were. Dean was at least honest enough to know that it would be far too much of a temptation to place himself within an easy phone call's reach just in case things went south there.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have done it without a moment's hesitation.

But John had been quite clear about Dean keeping his distance. Firm in his assurances that while the headquarters themselves were chock full of high ranking fuglies who would have no compunction about eating a hunter or two there were strict rules in place that guaranteed the safety of all who were invited inside. The penalty for breaking these rules was death.

Dean had no problem with being around in case his father needed him, but he also knew that John would be more likely to do something extremely foolish if he suspected that his son was in any kind of danger. His boys always being his one true weakness.

Eventually Dean had to admit that his presence in the area would only cause trouble and he also knew that he couldn't intentionally bring himself in such close proximity without just throwing caution to the wind and parking himself outside the headquarters to stare down anything that looked at him funny. Which would be a mistake because Dad needed to keep a clear head and unencumbered focus while he was in the belly of the beast.

Besides, the slightly longer and more southerly route had the advantage of bringing him in the vicinity of a much more pleasant possible encounter.

Cicero, Indiana wasn't even really a detour from the southern route to Lebanon. Not to a road wandering Winchester anyway. Dean had driven farther off the interstate for the hope of a fresher bun at a fast food burger joint so he certainly wasn't shy about going a few extra miles if it meant spending some time with Gumby Girl.

It had only been a few years since those incredible days with Lisa Braeden. The sex had been mind blowing. Truly the most bendy weekend of his life. The things that the girl could do with her body would make the angels weep and in all likelihood shouldn't have even been physically possible. So the chance of a repeat of that kind of awesome fun would have been reason enough alone to take the side trip.

But it was really more than that to Dean.

In between the active rounds that covered every surface of her place at one point or another, sweaty and pleasantly warm and hazy in the afterglow, Dean and Lisa had just laid in each other's arms and talked. About everything and nothing.

It wouldn't have even occurred to Dean at the time to share his real job with Lisa the way he did with Cassie just a couple of short years later, but everything else was on the table. They talked sports and music, finding a lot of common ground there. Movies and television, where she exhibited just as much knowledge of trivia as Dean ever could.

She loved to hear about his travels around the country, curiously asking question after question of the places he'd been and the people he met. Of course he had to be careful explaining his life on the road to her but she was shockingly cool about it all and not even a bit judgmental.

Besides being incredibly beautiful, Lisa was also intelligent and kind. Exciting and adventurous but serious and goal oriented. She was his age but had already opened her own yoga business that was starting to take off successfully enough that she was contemplating buying a house.

Dean had connected with her on more than just a physical level, but truth be told she intimidated him just a little with how mature she seemed to be. She could party, no doubt, but he could already tell that she wasn't the kind of girl that would spend her life perched on a bar stool ready for the next no strings attached guy to come along.

The kind of guy that Dean himself was at the time.

When their time together was at an end they had parted on more than amicable terms. Both of them knowing that it was most likely for good. But Dean had always kept the memory of her floating around in the back of his mind as a potential of something more.

When he directed the Impala south towards Cicero there was a small smile on his face and for just a moment he let himself dream about a new possibility.

/

Sam stumbled back to his dorm room from the shared bathroom shivering even though he was wrapped up in a thick robe. The hot shower he had been hoping would warm him up and ease some of the body pains he was suffering hadn't done as much as he needed.

It was midday on a Saturday. The weather outside had taken a turn for the better and the sun was shining brightly. Enough so that it enticed many of the students in Adams to find something to do outside. Most of them took full advantage of California's usually pleasant weather when they could and while Palo Alto traditionally had cool, wet winters today was close to a balmy 60 degrees.

Whatever Sam had come down with had happened fairly quickly. It was true that he was running himself a little ragged lately but even with the hours spent off campus working for Dr. Stilner he seemed to have had more energy than normal.

Until the day before yesterday, that is.

Without warning, midway through an evening shift at the restaurant his head started to swim and he damn near fell down at his dish washing station. Sam didn't usually work Thursday nights but it was Valentine's Day and since he didn't have anyone special to spend it with himself he volunteered to work the hours of what everyone knew would be a much busier than normal dinner service.

He was also just really fond of his employers who had been very good to him so anything he could do to help them out he would.

Things were going along like any other busy night as tables started to fill and then quickly refill and Sam felt perfectly fine right until he suddenly broke out into a cold sweat and his head started to pound without warning. With the eyes of a hawk Milo had seen him swaying on his feet from all the way across the room and he had been by Sam's side before the boy even realized what was happening. With every member of the staff already working at breakneck speed no one had time to fuss too much over him, sick or not.

Sam hated to be the cause of any kind of fuss, especially during a dinner rush. He repeatedly assured everyone around him that he just needed to sit for a minute so Milo and Antonio had helped him into Maria's office where it was quiet and left him on the couch inside with a large bottle of water, a knitted throw made by Milo's Nonna and strict instructions to stay put. With the lights turned off and the sounds of the kitchen muffled by the closed door Sam lay there in the dark, curled up into a lanky ball as his body alternated between fever and chills until Milo drove him home a few hours later and got him into bed.

Brady had tried to use his limited knowledge of diagnostics in an attempt to convince his roommate to go to Student Health Services but Sam, used to powering through illnesses, refused and just popped a handful of aspirin and downed a bottle of water. He had no way of telling his friend that all he really wanted to do was call his brother and have Dean come and take care of him just like he used to without sounding like a whiny child.

Because no matter how much Sam might have grumbled over Dean's overt tendency to mother hen him while he was growing up, right then all Sam wanted was the familiar comfort of the one person who had always known just how to treat his various hurts and sicknesses.

But of course he couldn't ask that of Dean and he couldn't explain why to a very concerned Brady.

Not after all this time of radio silence. Not even if Sam was pretty sure that his estranged brother would probably put aside their differences long enough to come watch over Sam if he knew that his little brother was sick and miserable and needing him. Maybe Dean wouldn't forgive him, and he probably shouldn't after the way Sam treated him, but most likely he would shelve his anger long enough to make sure that Sam was well taken care of until he recovered.

Just because that was who Dean was.

Sam wanted that.

Wanted it more than just about anything he had ever wanted in life.

It was hard enough on a regular day to be separated from his brother knowing there were very hurt feelings between them. But to be under the weather and feeling vulnerable and lonely and still not have the comfort of the only person who had always made him feel cared for and safe was simply too much to bear when Sam's defenses were already at an all time low.

Instead of calling Dean however, Sam had simply crawled into his own bed that first night and suffered in silence. Knowing that it was Unattached Drifter Christmas and that his brother was most certainly in the process of working his way through the lonely hearts of half a dozen bars in whatever location he had found himself in.

Sam had well and truly burned that particular bridge and it wasn't fair at this late stage in the game to guilt trip his brother into nursing him back to health. Especially after Sam had left him alone and broken on their couch last summer.

In the end he had cried himself to sleep that night trying to convince his skeptical mind that it was because of how miserable he was feeling physically and not because he missed his brother more than words could say.

And because Sam was a glutton for punishment, yesterday, after summoning every ounce of strength he had in him, he had dragged himself to his morning class determined to make it through the day. But by the end of the class he was flushed and aching again and for the first time since his arrival at school he skipped his afternoon courses.

Thankfully Dr. Stilner was still at a conference out of town that she had left for the day before Sam's illness struck so he didn't have any obligation to her. Then Milo had called him to tell him very clearly to keep his butt at home until he was feeling better and not worry about his shifts at work.

So here Sam was.

Alone in his dorm room and miserable.

Hands shaking under the blanket and determined to power through on his own and not be a burden on anyone.

No amount of prayer over the last few days was apparently enough to bring his beloved brother to his doorstep and as Sam shivered in his bed feeling very young and scared he missed Dean so much it hurt more than any physical illness ever could.

/

"Calm down."

It's one of those trite phrases that tends to make the recipient of the command do anything but.

In Dean's case, that kind of suggestion would normally get someone a face full of his Colt until they realized the error of their ways and backed off.

However this particular edict had just been issued by his father so Dean took a deep breath before he said something he might regret later and sat back down at the conference table in the very nice office where they were waiting.

Bouncing his right leg nervously under the table he took the cup of coffee he was given and drained it in one long gulp. Clearly he didn't need the additional caffeine but it was something to do until the rest of the party joined them. Feeling incredibly twitchy he reached into the interior pocket of his suit jacket and checked the contents of it for the sixth time since they arrived.

"It's not going anywhere, kiddo," John scolded gently with a smirk on his face.

This time Dean did throw his father an annoyed glare that John returned with a chuckle. Half of his son's unease at the moment was his usually gruff father's almost jovial demeanor. It was off putting to say the least. Not that John had never had moments of levity over the years, but his overall happier outlook in the past couple of weeks was way out of the norm for the seasoned hunter.

"You sure you want to do this?"

That question had been asked of Dean at least a dozen times in the past week. To the point of Dean being determined to go through with his plans whether he still wanted to or not just to be contrary. Sam wasn't the only one who had a hard head when it came to Dad on occasion. As loyal and obedient as Dean was most of the time his father could try the patience of a saint.

"I'm sure," he answered with just enough vehemence in his voice to have his father put up his hands in surrender and back off.

Feeling antsy again Dean stood up from the table and crossed over to the large picture window that overlooked the parking lot for the office building. The Impala was parked at the far end, several spaces away from the other cars. Dean had never minded the extra walk if it meant that his Baby was kept clear from others who weren't always careful with how they drove and opened doors.

A few spaces away to her right was his father's new truck, gleaming in the afternoon winter sunlight. Another black GMC Sierra only this time it was a brand new 2002 model with all the bells and whistles. Dad had liked his old truck well enough to shell out for the latest version, especially since the new one boasted the extra space of a crew cab which meant that there was room for Dean and Henry to travel comfortably with him on the road if need be.

That no one commented on there being space for a fourth in the cab was just one more way that the Winchester men avoided talking about Sam's absence while still being acutely aware of it.

The thought triggered the deep sadness inside of Dean that had him heartsick that his little brother wasn't with him today. He should be. What Dean was about to do was something that he and Sammy had started together and they should be finishing together. He missed the kid every single minute of every single day but there were times like this when he missed him just a little bit more.

The sound of the conference room door opening and people milling in had Dean turning away from the window and making his way back to his seat at the table. He shot his father one more apprehensive look that John returned with a comforting smile and an affectionate clap on the back as the new group of people took their places around the table.

The whole thing was fairly painless and took less than twenty minutes from start to finish. There were stacks of papers to sign after the terms and various clauses were read out loud so that everyone had the opportunity to ask questions if something wasn't clear. Dean had read over the documents enough times over the course of the two days they had been in his possession and it was all pretty black and white. John must have been feeling a bit of paternal overdrive however as he stopped the reading on two separate occasions for brief discussion of the particulars before finally the last signatures were completed.

Once the formalities were complete all Dean needed to do was pull the envelope containing the certified check out of his pocket and slide it over to the old woman sitting directly across from him.

It would be the last time he conducted business with her.

She didn't even check the contents before nodding to the man next to her who then signaled to the rest to pack up.

"Congratulations on your purchase, Mr. Winchester."

Dean looked over to the lead attorney for the transaction and accepted the outstretched hand feeling a little overwhelmed. He muttered a polite thank you and then was surprised by his former landlady coming over to give him a fond peck on the check.

"I'm very happy for you dear," she said sweetly. "You and your brother are such nice boys. I know you'll take good care of the old place."

The mention of Sam pierced him again painfully for a second but he managed to give her a small smile anyway. Sam's absence had been honestly explained as him being away at school when Dean approached her to see if she was interested in selling the little house that the brothers had made into a home. She had not only agreed to the sale but had also given him a more than fair price and Dean knew it was because of her personal fondness of the two Winchester boys.

It had taken Dean a couple of days to convince his father that buying the house was a good idea. Because John was more or less based at the bunker in Lebanon he hadn't necessarily liked the notion of his firstborn being even more permanently settled several hours away in Sioux Falls. Not that he could blame his son for wanting to put down some roots now that they had the financial means to do so, but John was clear that he would prefer it was somewhere nearby to him.

In the end Dean had held firm and insisted upon the house he already considered the family home. He was honest enough to admit that part of it was because he still held out hope that someday Sam would find his way there again and Dean wanted to have it for his little brother to come back to, but another part of him loved it on its own.

It was the first place where he had felt right and comfortable since he was a small boy.

John eventually agreed when he recognized that he was fighting a losing battle. With Dean being over the age of twenty-one he already had access to the trust fund that Henry had set up for him during their trip to the bankers in Chicago a couple of weeks ago. So technically John couldn't stop him from buying the house without arguing that its purchase would be irresponsible in the fiduciary sense.

While it was true that he was the trustee for both of the funds set up for his boys, John only had final say for expenditures for Sam's trust. Dean could request money from his own trust to use as he pleased unless John wanted to legally petition to prevent it on a case by case basis, and he wasn't about to be a hard ass after years of denying his son most material possessions.

After saying their goodbyes to Dean's former landlady and the rest of the group the two of them drove back to the house with Dean in the lead. He had already told his father that he was planning on spending a few days puttering while John was eager to get back to Lebanon. Truth be told John was a little worried about Henry being all alone in the bunker. Although Dean had invited his grandfather to join them for the closing today, Henry had refused and John guiltily thought that his father's reluctance to join them for what was a momentous occasion in his firstborn's life was probably because he still wasn't feeling particularly welcome in the family.

It was going to be a long time before John was ready to come to terms with what had really happened with his father the night he disappeared. Although he was at least trying to give the man some credit for not entirely being a deadbeat. After all, John couldn't very well accuse Henry of trying to buy his way into their lives when the arrangements had been made before he ever tried to outrun the demon and thus destroyed their happy little family.

The mantle of anger was hard to put down, but for the sake of his sons John was going to try. Meanwhile he was going to make use of every resource he now had at his fingertips to advance his almost two decade long quest for vengeance.

/

The rain was falling hard again while Christian sat out in his car at the end of the cul-de-sac. Only moments before he had watched his cousin exit the Mission Style house and jump on the bicycle chained to the tree in front.

Poor kid was going to get drenched he thought as he took a long drag of his cigarette and watched Sam speed away. Overhead a sharp flash of lightning illuminated the entire neighborhood like daylight for a quick second before everything went dark again. There had been an unusual amount of storms in the past few weeks. Far more than the norm for the area.

It was just a hunch, but Christian's job here was to watch for things out of the ordinary. He had already spoken to Uncle Robert and to Ash who was at this moment working on a tracking program to see if his hunch was right.

Either something was very wrong with Sam or there was something very wrong with the people who Sam was spending time with.

Christian smiled a cold, dark smile. Happy that he might just get to have some fun out here after all.

/

For the third day in a row Henry was holed up in the bunker's lab testing and re-testing the various tinctures he was experimenting with to give the spell he had known by heart since his teenage years the best possible result. What he was doing was of paramount importance to his son's safety and he couldn't take any chances of making a mistake when it might cost John his life.

Henry was grateful and more than a bit touched to have been invited to the closing for Dean's house and the urge to join his family for such an event was extremely tempting. However, he had plans that were best done without his son's knowledge until Henry was sure that his work was perfect. He didn't want to get John too excited before he had an actual working prototype to present to him.

The years of absence on his part had let John down too much already. Henry couldn't bear the idea that he might do it again.

Abbadon in her cruel taunt hadn't been lying when she smugly reminded Henry that spells had never been his strong suit. It was the thing that had kept him from being initiated sooner than that terrible night and was still a matter of quiet humiliation on his part. He had the working knowledge of course, but there was more to magic than throwing a few words around. Finer spell work, the kind that was required with Henry's current project, had to be delivered with finesse and skill. Otherwise the caster and those around them could be subjected to uncertain repercussions that were almost always deadly in nature.

Ironically it was because of his less than stellar handiwork in the time travel spell that had ultimately been Abbadon's undoing. If he had done the spell properly she would never have been able to track him to the current day and thus would not have fallen victim to John's more creative nature as a hunter. As far as Henry knew, Abbadon now resided in several small pieces hidden throughout a maze of buried curse boxes across most of the continental US.

No one knew the exact location to completely assemble her again since John, Dean and that Singer man had each taken a bunch of the boxes and split up without sharing the details where they were eventually scattered.

The important part was that she would never again be in a position to slaughter and if that small piece of knowledge gave Henry a tiny bit of satisfaction for his fallen brethren then he would accept his indirect role in making it happen.

But that kind of inept lightning wasn't worth striking twice, and if Henry's only son was dead set on hunting down the Prince of Hell that had murdered his wife and tainted his son and killing it, then you could be sure that Henry was going to give John every single advantage that he could.

Especially since John had slowly, very very slowly, started to come around on the whole magical nature of the bunker.

Henry already knew that the radar, which immediately started broadcasting the location of supernatural threats once Mrs. Butters had powered everything back up to full capacity, was the reason why John's eyes had lit up like a child on Christmas Day and propelled him to take hunting in the new direction he was feverishly working towards.

And while the radar was nice and all, it being the way the Letters had run their own team of hunters back in the day, it was just a tiny part of everything that John's heritage could offer him.

Because when it really came to magic, John hadn't seen anything yet.