Supernatural's not mine, you know.

Many, many thanks to carocali, Spooky-Girl, MistyEyes, Evergreene, sasha2002 and PadfootObsessed329 for their kind reviews. I'm glad you guys are enjoying it so far. But let me know if you have any criticisms, OK? I'm very thick-skinned. Also, I haven't seen the latest ep yet, so on the offchance that any of you were planning on mentioning spoilers in the comments, please don't! Thanks so much :).

----

But for the Grace, Chapter 3

You're my brother, and I'd die for you.

Dean hadn't meant to fall asleep, but at some point he had. It was pretty freakin irritating actually, because he knew he was asleep, and what's more he knew he was in a really uncomfortable position in the crappy motel chair, but he couldn't quite make himself wake up.

Do I know you?

If that wasn't enough, he kept having the same stupid dream, over and over again. It was only a few minutes long, and it had repeated what felt like a thousand times now. God, it was emo. Dean knew he shouldn't be having emo dreams, that was Sam's bag. If Dean dreamt at all, he dreamt about manly things, like cars and chicks. Sometimes chicks in cars. There was that kind of disturbing dream with him and the Impala that was definitely X-rated, but Dean didn't want to admit even to himself that he enjoyed it when it came, so he wrote it off as the product of spending far too much time on the road.

You're my brother, and I'd die for you.

Oh, for Christ's sake, Sammy, stop saying that. It was nice the first time, if kind of melodramatic, but honestly, the surprise was pretty much ruined by now.

Do I know you?

Jesus. Yeah, yeah, he knew it was coming, but it still seemed to get him every time. The change in Sam's face, from that kind of lame half-smile to blankness and confusion, and Dean felt totally lost all over again. Emotions were pretty much dumb. Dreams too. What the hell was the point of them anyway? (Well, apart from the Impala dream, there was definitely a point to that. What? Everyone knew he was a pervert anyway, might as well admit it.)

You're my brother and I'd die for you.

OK, you know what? Time to wake up.

This time, Dean succeeded in pulling himself out of his useless sleep. Weak light was filtering through the dusty blinds. Sam was still passed out on the bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed apart from his shoes and socks. Dean remembered the way he had woken up the morning before and grinned to himself. You see, Sammy? When your brother's too out of it to help himself, you gotta at least take his shoes off. It's common courtesy.

His smile faded as he realised that he had fallen asleep without doing anything to restrain Sam. He was pretty sure he would have woken if Sam had tried to move, especially given the sprained ankle and the clumsiness Sam had been displaying lately, but all the same, if he had been wrong the consequences wouldn't have borne thinking about. Not much he could do about curse-breaking or kicking evil spirit ass if he was stuck in jail. Plus, the whole legally dead suspected murderer thing would definitely cramp his style when it came to dealing with the cops.

Dean stretched out his cramped muscles and watched his brother thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then he made a plan.

----

When he got back, Sam was awake and glaring. That was not a problem, though. Glaring, Dean could handle. Besides, it was pretty goddamn funny.

"You tied me up," Sam said accusingly, his voice kind of raspy still.

"Just a little bondage fun in the morning, Sammy boy," Dean said. This may have been a pretty shitty situation, but tying his brother's wrists to the bedposts with strips of sheet had seemed a pretty fucking awesome way both of solving the flight risk problem and of pissing Sam off, and he was damned if he wasn't going to enjoy that while he could. Being a kidnapper had some perks.

Sam tugged feebly on his restraints. "I've got freakin rope burn," he complained.

Dean's grin widened. "I can help you with that," he said, reaching into the bag he carried and pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He dangled them from one finger. "Got you a gift."

Sam's face darkened, then a moment later his eyes widened and he looked very nervous. "You're not going to... You're not...?"

Dean stared at him for a moment, trying to work out what he was trying to say. Sam's eyes travelled to the handcuffs. Dean got it (a little too quickly, but then his mind always was in the gutter), and snorted.

"Relax. Incest is totally not my style."

Sam's brow creased. "What?"

Dean cleared his throat hurriedly. Shit. "Uh... I'm not gay, dude. I go for hot chicks. You know? With breasts and stuff." Great. Real smooth, Dean.

Sam was staring, as well he might. Dean just shook his head. He was freakin lame.

Eventually, Sam looked away, then said, "People are gonna come looking for me."

Dean dropped the bag down on the chair and pulled out his coffee. "They won't find you. Believe me, I'm freakin excellent at hide and go seek."

Sam's mouth twitched. He looked glum. Well, yeah, but Sam pretty much looked glum all the time, like that was his default expression or something, so that didn't mean anything.

"Listen," he said, "I don't know what you think you know about me, but I'm not rich. I've got fifty dollars in my wallet and maybe two-fifty in my account, you can have it, whatever. I don't have any family. No-one can pay you."

Jesus. Dean swallowed a mouthful of coffee and suddenly hated being a kidnapper again. He wanted to reassure Sam, but what could he say? "Money and sex, Sam? That all you can think about? I thought I was meant to be the shallow one."

Sam's head jerked. "Then what the hell do you want with me?"

Dean sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, then moved to sit on the bed. "Look at me, Sam."

Sam kept his face determinedly turned away, but Dean grabbed his chin and forced him to meet his eyes. Sam expression was defiant, but scared too.

"Listen," Dean said quietly, "I need you to trust me, OK? I don't want to hurt you. I'm doing this to help you. Everything's messed up and... if I told you about it you wouldn't believe me, but I'm gonna fix it, OK? You've just gotta work with me here."

Sam stared at him, but his expression didn't change. Dean sighed.

"I'm gonna untie you, OK? If you pull anything, I'll kick your ass."

Sam snorted. "People who want someone to trust them don't usually threaten them with violence."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, I'm special." He untied one of Sam's wrists, and handed him a bottle of aspirin. "Thought you might need these."

Sam glared, but he manipulated the lid off the bottle one-handed and swallowed a couple dry. Dean untied his other wrist. "Come on, kiddo. We gotta get going."

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, rubbing his wrists. Dean planned to put the handcuffs on him in the car, once they were away from prying eyes.

I don't freakin know. Wherever that shithole was where this all started. "If I told you that, I'd have to kill you." It was meant to be a joke, but Dean knew as soon as he'd said it that it was a bad one. Sam's face shut down even more. Well, at least that might mean no more goddamn annoying Sammy questions.

No such luck. Sam was already opening his mouth again. "Are you at least gonna tell me your name?"

Dean stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He felt cold, and hot, and really fucking unpleasant. My name was the first goddamn thing you ever said, back when you didn't even know your own. "It's Dean."

"Dean what?"

Winchester. Oh, hey, coincidence, huh? "Just Dean."

He was just Dean now. Just Dean until Sam was just Sam again.

----

Dean figured he would just drive east, following the route he had come by until he found the town again. It kind of bothered him that he couldn't remember the name at all; then again, they had only been there for the night, on the way to somewhere else. It had had a bar and a run-down motel. The bar had had a smokin hot barmaid. Dean had woken up, and Sam had been gone. That was pretty much it. Sam would remember, he always remembered stupid shit like that. Except Sam wasn't so hot on remembering stuff these days.

Maybe some of the memory spell or whatever the hell the damn thing was had rebounded onto Dean. Dean was pretty sure he remembered his entire life. But then, Sam seemed pretty sure he remembered a life too, and whatever life it was he remembered, it was not the same as the one Dean had in his mind.

The thought that hit Dean then was so incredibly uncool that he thought he might just have to puke, and he decided if he was going to then he would be sure and do it on Sam's lap. The little bastard deserved it. Plus, the upholstery.

What if actually it was Dean who had had a different life implanted in his memory? What if he had imagined the whole thing, his life with Dad and Sam, the hunting, the demon and Mom? But that didn't make any sense. Why would someone take a guy like him and try to convince him that he was some stranger's brother, when the stranger didn't know him from Adam? What would be the point? All the same, suddenly he wasn't so sure, because he knew something was fucked up, and he was the one who didn't seem to fit. But he thought he knew a way he could be sure, or more sure anyway. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, Sam?"

Sam was looking out of the window, looking tired and hungover and pissed off. He hadn't said a word since they had left the motel. Apart from the hungover part, it was pretty much like having the old Sammy back. "What?"

"What about your mom?"

Sam turned his face slightly. "What about her?"

"She alive?"

"No," Sam said. "She died when I was a baby."

Dean hesitated, but he had to know. "How'd she die?"

"There was a fire," said Sam.

Dean never thought he'd be so relieved to hear that story. But the facts matched, and this Sam's life was not completely different from the Sam he knew. OK, so pretty freakin different, but he was back to being almost one hundred per cent certain that it was Sam's head that was messed up and not Dean's.

Almost one hundred per cent.

----

They rolled into Springfield around four, and Dean could only shake his head and stop worrying about his memory. Seemed like he'd been to fifty Springfields in his life, and he'd stopped remembering them years ago. They were all freakin shitholes, anyway. This one was no exception, but it was bigger than Dean remembered, which was good because there was no freakin way they were staying in the same motel again. For one thing, Dean had paid with a credit card that he thought had probably made its last fraudulent transaction by now and needed to be sent to the great shopping mall in the sky. For another, the motel was pretty much right next door to the car rental place he'd used, and Dean didn't know if they would recognise him and associate him with the shiny new Toyota that had probably been boosted from Jed's and sold for scrap by now (and jeez, what a fate, to be associated with a damn Toyota), but he wasn't about to take that risk.

He found another place at the opposite end of town, thinking about leaving Sam in the car, but deciding it was better to keep an eye on him. Sure, he could handcuff him to something, but the kid was resourceful even if he wasn't firing on all cylinders right now. No, safer this way. He made sure, though, to let Sam know that if there was any funny business he would find himself with a one-way ticket to see his parents. He didn't put it like that, of course. There was already lying, kidnapping (Dean wasn't sure exactly where the law stood on kidnapping your own brother, especially when he was clearly having mental problems; he thought Sam probably knew, but he wasn't about to ask him), and bondage on his list; he didn't need to add insensitivity. Well, more insensitivity.

And that was weird, too, the way he'd thought about it – to see his parents. Dean knew he would never have even thought those words if it had been our parents. But that didn't make sense, because Sam was still Sam, still Dean's brother, and that meant they had the same parents, right? Except where Dean's dad was still very much alive, completely not a mechanic, and mostly not an alcoholic. It was weird. It was hard to get it all straight in his head.

It was kind of fucked up.

"One room, two queens," he said, grinning at the chick behind the counter. She smiled back, confident, assertive. He liked that.

"You two together?"

Dean sometimes wondered if maybe he and Sam gave off some weirdo romantic vibes. He didn't really get why people so often assumed they were an item. He generally thought it was pretty funny, but no way was he letting a hot chick go on thinking it.

"Nah," he said. "That's just my geek brother."

He paused, realising what he had said, and looked at Sam, but Sam was looking away, slouched against the wall keeping his weight off his ankle, and he didn't react at all. And why would he? What Dean had said didn't mean anything to him. Just another lie to add to the list.

"What's his name?" the girl asked, as if Sam were a dog.

"Sam," Dean replied.

The girl grinned, and hot damn she was gorgeous. "Hey, Sam," she called over. "Your brother's a hotty, you know that?"

Dean felt his grin widen. Sam just scowled.

----

Once they had the keys, Dean tried without much success to help Sam hobble to the room. The ankle didn't seem to be as bad as Dean had thought the night before, which was kind of good and kind of bad, because obviously the reduced mobility was kind of a pain in the ass, but on the other hand it meant Sam was less likely to make a break for it, and Dean couldn't believe he had just sort of wished that his brother had broken his ankle for real. Jesus, that was so fucked up. Better not to even think about it.

Dean made sure Sam went to the bathroom, then handcuffed him to the bedpost, trying to do it in such a way that Sam could rest comfortably. Sam had lapsed back into silence after their exchange in the car hours earlier, and had hardly spoken since. He had picked at the burger Dean had bought him and eventually thrown it out of the window. At some point along the way, he actually had thrown up (luckily they were already parked, because no way Dean would have pulled over again), and then muttered something about being hungover. Morose didn't even begin to cover it, and what Dean had to do next was not going to make things any better. He thought about it again, trying to see if there was any other way, but he couldn't come up with anything, and so he pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket and swallowed. Tying Sam up earlier had been kind of funny, and the whole handcuffs thing was freakin inspired, but gagging his brother made him – well, it pretty much made him gag.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he muttered, trying to tie the knot loosely so it wouldn't hurt Sam.

Sam just glared at him. It didn't look like he accepted the apology.

----

He found the bar easily enough. There were several in town, but the one they had been to that night was the seediest, most run-down joint going. Plus, there was the smokin barmaid. Dean never forgot a face. Well, OK, yeah, he forgot faces all the freakin time, but he never forgot a hot one. It was like some evolutionary super power or whatever. If he ever had kids, they were gonna be prettier than God.

Unfortunately, the barmaid (Jennifer, it turned out, 555-2194) didn't recognise the picture of Sam he handed her, or remember anything unusual happening two nights before. She was apologetic (and hot – let's not forget the hot), but she said it wasn't really that weird. It was a trucker bar, new faces every day, a punch-up every week. It took a lot to make an impression these days. Dean, now Dean made an impression.

Dean grinned, wondering if he should mention that he'd been there a couple of nights before as well, but figured he should just take the compliment as intended. Anyway, it turned out that Earl had a much better memory for these things. Earl was the other member of staff who had been on that night. He was coming in later, about nine. Dean could stay and have a drink to wait for him if he wanted.

Dean wanted. He wanted a lot. But leaving his brother alone and tied up in the motel room for the next four hours was not high on his list of admirable big-brother actions, so he made his apologies, promised to be back later, and headed back.

Sam was still sitting in the same position that Dean had left him in, facing the door and scowling like he'd just heard that his eyebrows were terminally ill and was determined to make the best use of them he could before... Actually, screw that metaphor. It kind of sucked. Anyway, despite the circumstances, Dean was weirdly buoyed up by the sight of his brother, and hurried to take of the gag. That just freed up more of Sam's face to join in with the whole scowling thing he had going. Damn, he had that expression down.

"Careful," said Dean. "If the wind changes your face might get stuck like that."

Sam muttered something that Dean didn't catch, and Dean inclined his head as if listening. "Come again?"

"I said fuck you," Sam growled, and locked eyes with Dean. "Fuck you. I don't know what you think you're trying to prove with this fucking cute act, but just drop it, OK? We're not friends. We're sure as hell not fucking brothers. You freakin kidnapped me, and I know somewhere in your fucked-up brain you've convinced yourself that you're doing it for me or whatever, but I don't see it that way, OK? So just freakin give up the let's-be-friends crap and act like the goddamn psycho you are."

Dean felt his knees weaken, and then anger flooded through him. "Jesus Christ, Sam, everything's always gotta be about you, doesn't it?"

Sam barked a laugh. "Oh wait, did I hurt your feelings? Excuse me while I beat myself up about it."

"You think this is easy for me?" Dean was shouting now. "You think I'm having a great time, tying you up and dragging your whiny ass all over the country?"

"Oh, my heart bleeds," said Sam. "Oh wait, here's an idea – if it pisses you off so much, why don't you just stop doing it? Oh, don't tell me, you're on a mission from God, or whatever it is whackos worship."

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but suddenly found he couldn't form any words. He raked his hands through his hair and turned away, not wanting to look at Sam's accusing face any more. Fuck. Fuck.

There was a long pause, and then Sam sighed. "Jesus, I need a drink."

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. "OK," he whispered. "OK."

----

In theory, it was a brilliant plan. Dean needed to quiz this Earl guy, and wanted to check out the bar to see if any of the patrons looked suspicious, but he didn't want to leave Sam alone in the motel room. Sam obviously needed something to take the edge off. And hey, turned out they sold just such a substance in bars. Pretty handy places, bars. So that was how it was that when eight-thirty came around, Dean found himself seated in the emptiest corner of the bar in question opposite his little brother, ordering beer from the waitress.

"Actually," said Sam, "I'll have a tequila."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You sure about that, Sammy? That's kind of a man's drink."

Sam glanced at him coolly. "What's your point?"

Dean swallowed, eyeing the man across the table who looked like his brother. Jesus, he realised, I miss you.

He had to win Sam's trust somehow, because this couldn't go on. Yeah, OK, eventually he was going to get Sam's memory back, and then all the threatening and forcing and cajoling would be unnecessary (well, OK, mostly unnecessary), but in the meantime, Dean wasn't sure he could bear another day of angry stares and cold words, of being the kidnapper, the guy who did this to me. OK, he didn't expect to be the big brother again just like that, not till the memory thing was fixed anyway, but he needed to shoot for something better. Maybe the friend. Maybe just the guy whose guts I don't totally hate. Maybe all these mental italics were getting to him.

The drinks arrived, and Dean sipped his beer cautiously. There would be no getting drunk tonight, not after last time. "So," he started casually. "You got any brothers and sisters?"

Sam downed his tequila in one and sucked his teeth. "Nope, only child." He pointedly didn't return the question, but Dean had made up his mind to ignore Sam's grouchiness.

"I got a kid brother," he volunteered, and smiled at the memory (and again, weird, because the little freak was sitting right there). "He's kind of a pain in the ass."

"That's what they're supposed to be like, though, right?" Sam said, not really sounding interested. "You know, brothers and shit."

"No way, man. I mean, OK, yeah, brothers are a pain, but that's not... It's like... I dunno, he's saved my ass more times than I can count. Not as many times as I've saved his, of course." Dean grinned.

Sam shrugged with one shoulder. "Well, I hope you two are very happy together."

Damn, if this isn't the most surreal goddamn conversation ever, thought Dean, and drew in a breath. "Actually, he's kind of pissed at me right now," he said. "Thinks I did something really... terrible. Doesn't know I was just trying to help him." He watched Sam from under his lashes, willing him to get it, knowing that this wasn't the time to tell him (it's never the freakin time), but wanting him to just know.

Sam shrugged again. "Seems like you've got something of a habit going there. Hey," he added, this time to the waitress. "Same again, leave the bottle. He's paying." He jerked his head at Dean.

Dean subsided back into his chair. What was he expecting? Sam would hear his words and think oh, hey, that's kind of like our situation – wait a sec, maybe I am this guy's brother! Yeah, right.

Sam downed the next tequila as soon as it arrived, and Dean frowned. "Pace yourself, buddy, we could be here a while."

Sam snorted. "Who died and left you in charge?"

Dad, according to you. Dean shook his head. "I just don't want to have to haul your wasted ass back to the motel if you pass out."

"Yeah, thanks, grandma," Sam said. "Hey, tell you what, if I get drunk enough to pass out, you can just leave me here, OK? I'll catch up with you in the next town over, or whatever."

Dean frowned. Sam was obviously not going to be tractable on this issue. On the other hand, maybe he could play it to his advantage – Sam was a total lightweight, and at the speed he was drinking, he really was likely to skip straight over the annoying, difficult stage of drunkenness (which, to be honest, the few times Dean had seen it in Sam had actually been pretty cute and kind of endearing) and head straight on into unconsciousness. And that would suit Dean just fine, because he would be free then to make enquiries without having to keep too much of an eye on him. OK, then. He would let his little brother drink himself into a stupor.

This fucking sucked.

It sucked even more three hours later, when Earl still hadn't showed and Sam had consumed nine – nine, Jesus -- shots of tequila, and still was hardly slurring his words. It sucked because Dean had to concede to himself that his plan had been a pretty crappy one, but it also sucked because Sam was a freakin lightweight, Dean knew that that was true, he'd been travelling with Sam for months and never seen him drink more than two beers, and he was beginning to have the horrible feeling that he didn't understand what the hell had happened to his brother even half as well as he thought he had (which was pretty damn not well anyway), because OK he could see where your memory could be altered to believe you could do half a bottle of José and survive it, but actual alcohol tolerance was a biological thing or whatever, right? And if his brother's biology had been altered...

"Hey," said Sam, startling Dean out of his circling thoughts as he turned sharply and grabbed a passing trucker by the arm. "Watch where you're sticking your elbow, buddy."

Dean stared. The trucker was maybe an inch shorter than Sam and twice as wide, but he was holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Sorry, man, didn't see you."

"Well you should watch where you're fucking going then, shouldn't you," Sam said, taking a step closer.

"Yeah, OK," the trucker said, backing off.

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Goddammit," he muttered, then pulled back his arm and delivered a roundhouse punch to the trucker's face.

It happened so fast Dean didn't even have time to process it. One minute Sam was standing there having a mild disagreement, the next he was in a brawl with someone twice his size, and all his freakin gigantic buddies. Dean was round the table in a moment, grabbing hold of Sam's elbows and trying to pull him off.

"Hey, Sam, chill," he said, and got an elbow in the face that made him stagger backwards.

Sam was going all out now, and that was wrong too, just like everything else, because Sam was a precision fighter, never making a move unless he had to, sizing up the opposition and finding their weak spots, but right now he was flailing, leaning back against the bar to protect his ankle, fists going in all directions and finding their targets through blind luck and drunken strength more often than actual skill. Dean had time to take all this in before he saw a guy on Sam's blind side with a raised pool cue, and flung himself into the fray.

Dean got in some good shots, and took a couple more, at least one of them from Sam's clumsy goddamn limbs, before the sound of a shotgun being cocked made the full-scale honest-to-Bonham brawl that had developed fall suddenly still and silent. It was the barmaid, Jennifer, and she was pointing the damn thing straight at Sam.

"Out," she said. "Both of you. And next time," she added, flicking her eyes to Dean, and there was none of that come-hither shit going on now, "you can bet your ass I'll remember you."

Dean grabbed Sam by his stupid fucking shoulder and dragged him out of the bar. Sam didn't protest, but he did grab the bottle of tequila on the way out.

In the parking lot, Dean exploded. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, what the fuck was that?"

Sam leaned against a wall, fingering his split lip with one hand and clutching the tequila with the other. "Looked pretty much like a bar fight," he observed.

"Yeah, which you started."

Sam didn't even have the goddamn decency to look shamefaced. "That guy pushed me."

"Like hell he did. I was there, remember? Are you trying to get yourself killed or something?"

Sam scowled. Again. "Hey, I didn't ask for this you know. You're the one who kidnapped me, I never said I was decent company."

This again. Dean had hoped that an evening of relaxing conversation in the bar might bring Sam round to him. Yeah, that had turned out about as well as the rest of Dean's plans recently. Turned out, he was actually pretty crappy at planning shit. He wiped his hands over his face. "I just don't get it. This isn't like you."

"You don't fucking know me!" yelled Sam.

Dean closed his eyes. "No," he muttered. "I don't think I do."

They each stood there in silence for a moment, breathing heavily. Then Dean shook his head.

"We're going back to the motel," he said. "And give me that." He snatched the tequila out of Sam's hands.

"Hey," Sam yelled. "Give that back."

Dean sized him up. "Make me."

For some reason, he hadn't thought that his challenge would get a response, and the punch Sam aimed at him, though it was drunken and sloppy and almost missed, had enough force to snap his head round and make him drop the bottle in surprise. He recovered quick enough to dodge the second punch, though, and decided that, messed up head or no, enough was enough. Sam had left himself wide open, and he was beginning to stagger under the burden of tequila anyway, so a quick (and pulled) punch to the gut and a nudge to his injured ankle was all it took to send him down. He lay on the ground, gasping and spitting. Dean sighed, and then reached down to haul him up.

"I fucking hate you, you know that?" Sam muttered.

"What are you, twelve?" Dean replied, and tried to ignore the feeling that those words provoked in his gut. Once he had got Sam into the car, though, he went back for the miraculously unbroken tequila.

----

For the second night in a row, Sam was unconscious as soon as he hit the pillow, and Dean wondered if maybe this was a twisted cosmic revenge for all the times he'd wished his brother could just find it a little easier to sleep. Dean, however, was nowhere near relaxed enough to catch any zs. The night had been a total bust. Sam had gone from just sulking like the emo loser he was to actually violently, probably homicidally hating Dean's guts. There was no way he was getting any more information from that bar. And to cap it all off, all the effort he'd gone to to get Jennifer's number had gone to waste. OK, so it hadn't been that much effort, she had recognised his charms pretty much as soon as he walked in the door (he always liked the sensible ones), but still, it did not contribute to a general feeling of well-freakin-being. Damn.

After about twenty minutes of pacing, he figured he could put all this nervous energy to good use. He'd seen Sam's laptop in the car, peeking out from underneath the back seat. Usually he wasn't too hot on the whole research thing but – he glanced at Sam, whose face looked like it was going to be a mass of bruises come morning and serve him the hell right too – OK, someone had to do it.

It wasn't until he came back into the room with the laptop that he remembered he'd left his car key on top of the dresser. Which was weird, because he'd just found it in his pocket. He pulled it out again and examined it – yup, it was his, the main key, not the spare. Except there was no troll on the key chain.

Dean turned around very slowly, feeling the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. There on the dresser lay the car key. The main one, not the spare. With a pink-haired troll on the key chain.

Dean stood there for a moment staring, and then sat down carefully at the table and opened the laptop. His fingers were definitely not shaking as he typed in the words Dean Winchester, Lawrence, Kansas into the search box. Yeah, OK, so he was looking for his birth certificate, but that was just to convince Sam when the time came for Sam to need convincing, not because he was worried or anything, the key thing was just a mix-up, right? Right.

Minutes later, he let out a sigh of relief. There it was in black and white: Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary. Born Lawrence, Kansas, 1979.

Well, that was OK then. Except that there was something else on the page underneath the scan of the birth certificate. Dean scrolled down and then stopped, his fingers hovering over the keys. Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary. Died Lawrence, Kansas, 1983.

Dean swallowed, and clicked back. The second link on the page was to a newspaper article, and he opened it, feeling bile begin to rise in his throat. Fire kills mother and toddler in Lawrence, father and infant son survive. The date of the article was November 3, 1983. Yup, there it was, in black and white.

"It says I'm dead, Sammy," Dean whispered to his sleeping brother. "It says I'm dead."