Author's Notes: Just another reminder, this story is AU as of "Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things." Hope people are enjoying.

I.

"Just another hunt? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you actually expect me to buy that shit? This was not just another hunt, Dean—"

"Yes, it was," Dean snaps. "It was a shifter trying to fuck with our heads. It wasn't Dad. Okay? Do you fucking get that?"

"Yeah, I get it, Dean," Sam says quietly. "Do you?"

II.

Dean had a perfect shot. The shifter had left it right open. Like it knew that Dean would hesitate. Dean never hesitated.

Dean aimed the gun at the skinwalker. And hesitated.

John Winchester's face disappeared in the darkness. A second later, Sam was being pulled backwards. "Dean!" Sam yelled.

"Sam!" Dean ran after him. "Sammy!" There was no answer. Dean ran carefully in the darkness, gun quickly pointing around sharp corners. "If you hurt my brother, you fucking bitch, I will kill you! Do you hear me? I will kill you so slow you'll be begging for a silver bullet!"

"Now, Dean," John's voice said. "Is that anyway to talk to your father?"

Dean turned quickly to his left and the shifter emerged from the shadows. He was holding Sam as a shield in front of him, a long blade close to Sammy's throat. Sam looked scared but otherwise unhurt. "You okay?" Dean asked him.

"Yeah," Sammy rasped.

"What, no words of welcome to your old man? Aren't you happy to see me, Dean?" The skinwalker laughed as he backed up further. "I sure have missed you boys."

Dean gripped the gun tighter in response, hoping that the action would speak for him. Hoping that the shifter would read between the lines: I'm not rising to the bait. I know what you are. Dean needed for the shifter to believe that the silence wasn't a weakness. Dean needed the shifter to believe that he was perfectly able to speak.

Because the truth was that Dean couldn't get his mouth to open because this was Dad, alive again, and Dean didn't have the heart for witty punch lines. Even when Dad had been possessed by the Demon, as horrible as that had been, their eyes had been different. It was easier to separate the two. But now, Dad was here (no, it's not Dad, it's just a shifter) and Dean knew he was missing his cue to angrily explain that their dad was dead.

So Sam did it for him, Sam, the brother with a knife to his throat. "You're not him," Sam whispered harshly. "Our dad's gone. You're not him."

"Maybe not," the skinwalker said. "But I'm the best you're going to get." Dean watched Sam grimace in pain and saw the claws digging into his side. And it was Sammy's blood, Sammy's pain, that finally brought Dean's voice back to him.

"Don't," Dean said. "I will kill you if you hurt my brother."

"Oh, Dean," the skinwalker said. "Haven't you killed me enough already?"

Sam's brow furrowed at that, and he threw a quick glance at Dean, but Dean kept his attention on the shifter. "You let him go," Dean said, "and I'll do the same for you." Sam's glance of confusion turned to incredulity as he stared holes into Dean's forehead, but the shifter just laughed John Winchester's laugh, a gruff, too loud sound in the enveloping darkness.

"Dean, you always were such a bad liar. I'm beginning to think that Indian guy was right about you. You've lied to so many people so many times. You lied to me right before I died. You promised that you would take care of Sammy." The shifter dugs his claws further into Sam's side. "Does this look like taking care of him to you?"

Doesn't mean I lied. Just means I failed. But that wasn't much of a comeback, so Dean didn't say it. The shifter's attention was fixed almost entirely on Dean, and the knife pressed to Sam's throat was dropping just a little. Sam had one hand near his jean pocket, and the shifter hadn't noticed. Dean thought he knew what was hidden there; he just had to keep Dad's attention a little longer.

"So why bother with him anyway?" Dean asked his father (shifter, skinwalker, it's not Dad. . .only that was getting harder to remember with every passing second that Dean held the gun). "Why don't you just let him go and get your food over here? I can promise you, I'm a helluva lot more tasty."

"Oh, I think you know that Sammy's got . . .talents. . .that you couldn't possibly hope to share." Sam's hand was sliding out of his pocket, and Dean could see a small glint of metal in his hand. "Isn't that right, Sammy boy?"

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam said, and stabbed the knife blindly backwards.

Dean didn't see where the knife made contact, but suddenly Dad was screaming and his blade dropped. Sam tried to drop out of the way, but Dad's hands were on his arms. A second later, Sam was in the air and hurtling straight into Dean. Dean felt Sam slam into him, hard, and then he was flying backwards as well. His head cracked the wall behind him and the gun dropped out of his hands as he collapsed on the ground.

There was a second where things went murky and grey, like his mind was desperately trying to pass out, but Dean blinked the darkness away and pushed himself up from the floor. Sam was a few feet away from him, on the ground, and his Dad was nearby. His hands were at Sam's chest, ready to claw their way into Sam's heart.

Dean scrambled forward and leapt for the gun. He aimed it directly at his father's heart. "Hey!" he yelled and Dad looked up. There was a smile on his face.

"Dean!" Dad said, grinning at him. "Are you really going to shoot your own father? Can you really live with that guilt?" And Dean could tell that Dad thought he couldn't.

But he didn't know the son he had raised. He thought he'd raised a soldier, not a killer.

And boy, was he wrong about that.

Dean shot his father straight in the heart.

III.

"Look, I know you're worried about me. I get that, okay? And I'm not saying that Kentucky was a big bowel of fuzzy peaches because it wasn't. There was a shifter. It looked like Dad. I killed it. It sucked. But it's over, okay, and I'm sick of fucking talking about it."

"But you haven't said anything, Dean. All you do is go on about how you're fine, and I know you're not fine. Why won't you just admit it?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Sam. You're like a freaking broken record. What do you want me to do, cry?"

"Yes! Cry, scream, flip out! Do anything but sit there and tell me that you're fine!"

I AM fine. I am.

Dean knew it was a lie.

He didn't remember helping Sammy to his feet or putting his gun away. He didn't remember doing either of those things, but he must have because he's suddenly there. One arm around his brother, the gun in the back of his jeans. They stood there leaning into one another, staring at Dad. Dead again.

Hey, dejavu. Didn't we do this once before?

Then they were standing at the car, Dean on the driver's side, Sam on the other, and Dean had no memory of how they had gotten there, like the walk was a dream he couldn't quite remember. He heard Sam say his name a little too loudly, as if he had said it a few times already. Dean looked up at him and frowned. Sam had his concerned face on.

Sam said, "Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean didn't remember what he said. But it must have been something convincing because then they were driving away, one quick stop at the motel, and then getting the flying fuck out of Kentucky. Sam shot him furtive glances, reminding him about the human's body need to sleep, but Dean ignored him like he always did, and the hours rolled into days. Sam wanted to find a real bed but Dean couldn't let himself stop moving. He couldn't let himself sleep until he was sure he'd too be tired to even dream.

It was a good plan, might have worked even, if somewhere along the way, Dean's mind hadn't betrayed him and nodded off for a quick second. But it did, and Dean went suddenly from driving down the highway to barely veering the car out of the path of the very large, impending semi. Then Sam was swearing at the top of his lungs and Dean was pulling over on the side of the road and Sam was physically dragging him from the driver's seat saying he wouldn't let Dean get them killed. And Dean knew that Sam was right, that he had serious cause to be concerned, because Dean got people killed . . . somewhere, somehow he knew that. But he didn't want to think about it and he was too tired to fight, so instead he crumpled up in the passenger seat and prayed he wouldn't dream. But that, like most of his prayers, didn't work out the way he wanted, and when the brunette showed up in her wedding dress, Dean was not particularly surprised.

They were inside the church this time, and the brunette was reaching for his hand, but Dad showed up out of nowhere and shoved him out of the way. Dad shoved him and said slowly, "You know, I never wanted this. I never wanted to get married again, but I'll sacrifice everything for you."

And then Dad walked down the aisle, hand in hand with his reaper bride, and when Dad said, "I do", there was a gunshot in the church. Dean didn't remember pulling the trigger but the gun is cold and heavy in his hands, and there's a bullet hole in his Dad's chest, blood running all down his tux.

"Oh, Dean," Dad said, laughing. "Haven't you killed me enough already?"

And when Dean woke up in the car, he couldn't ignore the pieces any longer. Anyone smarter, or maybe just less stubborn, would have figured it out by now. But Dean was stubborn, and not that bright, and he wouldn't let himself understand. He didn't want this knowledge. He didn't want any of this.

But he couldn't ignore it any longer. Dad was dead. Because of him. Dad had sacrificed himself. Dad was dead.

Dean had killed him.