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"You aren't going to win, you know." Sam smiled triumphantly into his morning coffee, which, all of Dean's opinions aside, was not effeminate. Men drank lattes too. His brother looked at him blankly.

"Au contrare, little brother. See, you're not one to talk. You lost to me in Michigan."

Sam frowned. "I did not."

"Oh, yes. Lost like a girl. So you shouldn't talk smack. It'll come back to haunt you."

"Dean, I didn't lose to you. I had to forfeit because if you recall, your arm was squirting all over the place, and I had to stitch it so you wouldn't bleed to death."

Dean snorted derisively. "Forfeit, lose, it's practically the same thing." Sam was about to argue the point that no, they weren't the same thing, and yes, Dean was going to lose, when the waiter, a middle-aged man with a shining bald scalp, deposited a check on the corner of their table. The older Winchester took a swig of his steaming black coffee, swirling it in his mouth to savor it, and looked pleadingly at his sibling. Sam shook his head, but Dean stuck his lower lip out, a grown-up parody of a three year old. Sam rolled his eyes and reached for his wallet, handing his credit card with the name "Geoffrey Geraldo" scralled across it to the waiter. Dean smiled as the employee moved off, reveling in his success, and asked, "Where are we headed?"

"Well, I'm not really sure. There's a few spots over in New York, those look iffy, though. Um…there's a voodoo sect in Wisconsin…living dead in California…and that's about it. It's been a quiet week in Creepyville."

"Guess so." He slid easily out of the booth, slipping his jacket over his shoulders. "We should get moving. I vote California. I could use warmer weather. This Vermont weather…" He shook his head sadly. "These poor Vermontians." He paused. "And by the way, Sammy, I will win, because I'm older. And that makes me always win."

"You're the only person I ever met who cared so much about a thumb war, Dean." The tone was condescending, but the smile on his brother's face told the older sibling that there wasn't any truth in it. He smiled back, and the two of them---

---Agony! The Demon was in, raping his mind, tearing through memories and emotions faster than Dean could comprehend what was happening. He struggled madly, but the power of the darker creature was too much, like claws ripping gray matter until it was---

"Mommy, I drew it for you!" Mary turned and looked at her son with a smile on her lips. Her approval turned to confusion as she looked at his masterpiece however. It was nothing but an array of scribbles and lines.

"Dean, it's beautiful!" He beamed at her, a ray of sunshine through closed curtains. "It's a lovely…" She'd have to take a guess, "…house."

The boy's eyes looked hurt, big and hazel with puzzlement at his mother's mistake. "It's Daddy."

"That's what I meant!" And the world was right between them again. She bent and took the drawing, holding it up, and Dean was proud, because his mother had said---

---No! The Demon hissed in his head, frustrated. Dean could feel it even through the pain of the mental intrusion. "You know where it is, boy! Tell me where it is! You wear the insignia around your neck, so you can't lie!" The search continued, agonizing, tearing, no, no, no, Sam, where are---

""Dean! Dean!" Sam Winchester dashed into the crumbling house and threw his books on the counter, not bothering with the mess it made. "Dean!" The house was small, so it wouldn't take long to find his brother if he were home. Quickly checking all the likely places, and some of the extremely unlikely ones as well, namely, under the porch, behind an electric mixer, and on the roof, Sam found himself at last in the small bedroom both boys shared. Dean sat on the bed, a paper in his hand under scrutiny, until Sam flung his ten-year-old frame against him, laughing and brandishing his own piece of paper. "Dean, look! A's! Straight A's!"

Dean took the report card, careful not to crinkle the paper. "Wow, Sammy, that's great! You must have worked really hard."

"I did! And I got A's!" Sam did an awkward dance on the bed, stealing back his report card and waving around in circles like a banner.

Dean watched him, then slid his own report card, two A's and the rest B's, which he had slaved for in between hunts, under the bed. Sam deserved the glory today, and John wouldn't ask about Dean's report card once Sammy had proudly showed his own.

Dean didn't work for grades again after that.

Years later, when Sam got on the bus for Stanford, and Dean watched him go, all he could think about was how, if he had been willing to take some of the glory for himself, he would have been the one getting on that bus, and---

---And the Demon pulled out. Dean's knees gave way, crumbling of their own volition beneath him. The Demon let him go, let the middle Winchester's head slam against the pavement. It could have hurt if Dean's mind hadn't already felt like it had been torn apart, that the Demon hadn't already been within his head, memories and emotions wrung dry.

"It's impossible. He wears the insignia! He must know where it is."

"You didn't find it, father?"

"No. Mary was a clever wench, I'll give her that. He knows the location of that gate, but even sifting his mind I couldn't find it. She told him in some kind of code, I'm sure." The Demon cursed in his native tongue. He looked down at the man at his feet, than reared back and kicked his prone form with one foot, hard in the chest. Dean groaned, tried to sit up. His mind felt like it was bleeding, though he could feel strength returning slowly.

"Hey! Hey, you! What are you doing!?" A different voice, a stranger's voice. The Demon's head snapped up.

"Go!" He hissed at his offspring, and the possessee pounded away. The Demon glanced down. "I will have that location, Dean. I will." And he was gone. Dean closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the pavement. An instant later, there was a worried face above him, an older man, shaking his shoulders, pleading with him to give a name, tell him that it was okay.

Dean didn't have an affinity for older people, but he'd never been happier to see one in his life.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Kevin Graham, at age fifty-two, had driven the public bus for ten years in the small Indiana town. It was a ho-hum occupation that suited his personality. There were only three regular people who rode the bus anyway; Millie, the old woman with a hip so bad she couldn't drive or walk, Mark, a struggling businessman whose car had been repossessed, and Andy Stiles, who was blind in one eye and wasn't allowed to have a liscence. He'd come around the corner with Mark, who'd met him for lunch, and there'd been these three men standing next to his bus. At first, he let it go, because it was probably just some family dispute, and then the youngest one had gone down, cracking his head hard against the pavement. But when the other man had just prodded him uncaringly with one foot, Kevin knew this was no family. As soon as he cried out, the other two split faster than a jackrabbit chased by a fox. The young one didn't move. Kevin was on his knees beside him in an instant.

"Kid, hey! You okay? They mug you? You got a name, kid? Mark, go call somebody!" The businessman in his thirties nodded, shell-shocked, and moved a few feet away, dialing the local police in an instant. There was little response from the victim, until the hazel eyes opened wide to look at him in confusion. There was so much pain in them, Kevin was at a loss. "Oh, wow." He breathed to himself. "Look, I'm gonna go get you some help, okay, kid? Mark, they sending a unit?" He started to his feet, but a youthful hand caught him by the shin.

"No." The voice was raspy, but audible and adament. "No. I'll be…okay. Just give me a minute."

"Really, kid, I think…" The young man shifted a little. His leather lapel, which had slipped off one shoulder and fallen across his collarbone, shifted and Kevin started praying every prayer he knew. The kid's throat was slit clean across, and even though there was no blood, it couldn't be good. He swore in desperation. "We gotta get you inside. I'm gonna lift you, okay? I got you." An ambulance would have been better, but the ambulances in small town Indiana were slow in coming, and this kid couldn't wait. He hoped his bedside manner was keeping the kid calm. After all, that's what his deceased wife, a nurse of twenty years, would have said. Keep him calm, Kevy, keep him calm. He slid one hand under broad, youthful shoulders and another beneath lax knees, hoping his back would hold (the kid was built), and started to lift. With a weak hand, the young man pushed away. "Don't worry, I got you, kid. I'm just trying to help."

"I'll be okay." He shivered and brought one hand up to massage a temple.

"Alright, they're sending a unit." Mark approached, cautious. The kid growled in frustration.

"I told you--" Kevin left the arm around his shoulders, lifted the struggling patient up to a sitting position. The vertigo was almost experienced by the bus driver; the kid swayed like a tree in a tornado. "It's not that bad." He looked up, searching for something. He indicated a thick black scarf against the pavement a few feet away. "Give me that, please."

Kevin, at a loss, did as he was asked. The kid slipped it around his neck, hiding the wound from view. He attempted to rise, but fell back hard onto his tailbone. A string of curses bubbled out, frustration coming off him in waves.

"What's your name?" Hazel eyes scrutinized him carefully. Kevin had the distinct memory of going under a metal detector. Apparently, he passed the test.

"Dean."

"Well, Dean, you wanna tell me what just happened to you? You can tell me while we get you inside. It's cold out, and you're…well…Mark, help me lift him." The other man nodded, rolling up his suit sleeves. Dean didn't protest this time, but let them half-drag him to his feet. Kevin was glad, because the kid looked like he'd been through hell and back. "Land, what'd they do to you, kid?"

"I'm not sure, actually." Dean swayed a little, and Mark had to readjust his grip to hold him. "Let go."

"What?" Mark shook his head, vehemently. "Come on, let's just go inside and wait for the police."

"I said let go."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." The older men backed off, and Dean stood of his own power, feeling stronger by the second.

"There, see? I'm fine. Now you can go back to whatever you were doing before, okay?" His mind throbbed, thoughts spinning disconnectedly around and around and around…he put a hand on the bus to steady himself.

"At least let us call someone for you. I mean…your throat…you must be, like, Superman, or something." Kevin nodded in agreement.

"Will you leave me alone?" Dean scrutinized both of them, a cat questioning a dog's motives.

"When we know someone's coming for you. I…understand you might not want to talk about what just happened here, I mean, those guys could have been perverts…" Mark trailed off.

Kevin stepped in and finished for him. "So we ain't leaving you here, kid, for those pervs to come back for you."

"You can call my father. He'll come for me." I'm not leaving you alone anymore, Dean-o. "He'll come for me."

Ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Eloise paused. "Your phone is ringing, Samuel." The two of them were in one of the classrooms, an astounded Sam watching as several students, FALLEN, sat in complete silence, listening to a teacher that was silent as well, lecturing in their minds without any kind of vocalization. Possibly the strangest tour Sam had ever been on, except for the Museum of Dead Rock Stars Dean had dragged him on.

Sam started. The phone said, "Dad" in big, bold letters. "Um…excuse me for a second." The class all looked at him, apparently upset he'd used his voice. He slipped out the door and into a polished hallway. "Hello?"

"Samuel Winchester!"

Sam knew that tone. It was the tone that meant if Dean didn't intervene, father and son would come to blows, inevitably and always. "What?"

"When I give you an order, you follow it, understand? So when I said to you, stay home with your brother, what did you think I meant?"

Sam had one chance. Blame their leaving on Dean, and pretend he was still with his brother. "Sorry. Dean was climbing the walls, and we just went to a movie---"

"You never went to a movie! And you weren't with Dean, or none of this would have happened!" His father reached into his vocabulary and pulled out his deepest profanities, screaming them in fury.

"What happened?" No use in pretending anymore. "Is he okay?"

"Sam, the Demon found us. It found your brother."

No, no, no, this is my fault, I left him. "He hurt?"

"Not physically, no thanks to you. But it screwed with him somehow, Sam. He can't keep his feet." Sam felt sick, suddenly.

"Is he there? Let me talk to him."

"No. Now you get home, or I swear--"

A hand on Sam's shoulder startled him. Eloise was looking at him with sad, brown eyes. "He found your brother, didn't he?" Sam nodded, feeling ice cold guilt swelling in his throat. "You bring him here, Sam. We'll take care of it."

Sam nodded, grateful. This woman had saved his family. In theory. "Dad, I don't want to fight about this." Surprised silence from the other line. "I think I might have a lead on how to help Dean. That's what I've been doing this whole time. And you're right, I shouldn't have left him…"

"At least you know that, Sam."

"You in a cab?"

"Public bus, actually. Some guys rescued your brother and are giving us a ride home. You're lucky we dodged the police, Sam, or this could have gone even worse than it already is."

"Come to this address." He rattled it off, hoping beyond hope that whatever Eloise had said might help, would be his miracle. He needed a miracle. He needed Dean. "I'll be waiting here for you."

"We're on our way. And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You get an apology ready for your brother."

The line disconnected.

Ooooooooooooooooooo

The Demon remembered.

"I'm Mary, nice to meet you."

He remembered the look in her eyes. The look when he went after her oldest. Differing slightly from the look when he went after her youngest.

"Get away from my baby!"

He remembered her big blue eyes, screaming hate at him, when he handed her that necklace.

"I won't wear it. You can't force me."

So he'd done just that, just to spite her. With Dean, a mere six months, cradled in the crook of his arm, dangling ever so slightly out the two-story window, he'd forced her. And he'd explained to her, that she should be happy. She'd given him a gatekeeper first, Dean, the one who'd hold the gates open while his kind poured through it, and that in another few years she'd give him a Monarch, Sam. What greater honor could she have had? But he has to know, Mary, you have to tell Dean where it is, and give him that. It'll protect him until I need him. I'll protect him, Mary, don't be afraid.

"My son won't ever wear this. I'll make sure, you hear me!"

And ten years later, when Dean had started to wear that necklace, the Demon had just smiled. And Mary's spirit sobbed.

"No, Dean, no, don't you do this, baby, don't you do this!"

And the Demon took great satisfaction in jeering in her face that her son, her noble, oldest son would destroy everything. And he took even greater pride in mocking her that her proud, younger son would be the one to rule in destruction, that Sam would belong to him so wholly that there would be nothing left of the man that had once been.

But now everything was wrong. Sam resisted him fully. And he'd raped Dean's mind, taken it so entirely that he now was possessor of every thought. But the gate's location was not there. For the first time, The Demon doubted his success, doubted he could defeat the Winchesters.

And now it was Mary who remembered, and it was Mary who mocked.

"I told you, Raziel, I told you beast. Dean doesn't know he knows. I wouldn't let him know. And Sam is protected too, now. You have failed, Raziel!"

No. He would not, he could not fail.

He'd kill them all before that happened.

And Mary was quiet.

Thanks for reading! Please review!

--Kim Who Knows