A/N: Okay, so this is a long one, longest chapter yet, actually. More flashbacks, which means more WeeSammy and WeeDean. Also, I should mention that I made a small mistake in chapter seven, for those of you who remember such little details like, y'know, setting. Dean's memory of his dad hurting him should have happened in their house, not in the motel, as I erroneously stated. The Writer says she is very sorry.

THEN: Sam casts a spell on Dean to get his abilities back. Bobby shows up to patch up Sam and works on a plan to get Dean's soul back. Dean, meanwhile, figures out that the spell didn't quite work as well as Sam had hoped. He has a psychic connection to Sam now . . . one that Sam isn't yet aware of.

NOW:

I.

When he came to, Dean was lying in the backseat of the Impala, and the amount of rope around him was a little ridiculous. He might as well have been restrained in a straight jacket.

Dean blinked at the world around him. The drugs were still heavy in his system, and everything he looked at had a strange, odd hue surrounding it. His extremities were mostly numb—his fingers just starting to tingle painfully—but for the most part, he could still think. That, at least, was a good thing.

Well. He was stuck in the car with Sam. So, maybe, the whole thinking thing, not such an awesome deal after all. He could only hope that Sam wouldn't start crying. His tears were only funny when he was leaking blood too.

Dean flicked his glance towards the passenger seat, but Bobby wasn't in it. They were probably following him down the interstate, back to Bobby's home in South Dakota. Dean wasn't supposed to know that, though, wasn't supposed to know anything about The Plan. So, instead, Dean raised his head as far as he could and asked, "So, what? We goin to Disneyland or something?"

Sam smirked. Dean couldn't see it, but he could feel it, as if his own lips were tugging upwards. "Not exactly," Sam said. "We've still got work to do."

"Ah, Sammy. Always with the work. And you know what they say. All work and no play . . ."

Make Dean a very clichéd boy, Sam thought. Which . . . dude. Kind of rude.

Cliché, Dean huffed silently. Dude, I am aaaaaaaaaaaaallllll original.

Sam frowned at him through the rearview mirror. Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Sam continued to frown. "Nothing," he said. He shook his head. "Nothing."

Dean sighed. Whatever. Sam was such a moody little bitch. Even when he'd been going evil, he'd been all pissy about it. Sam's idea of a darkside was uncontrollable PMS.

Jesus, Sam. Such a woman. And to think, I was so relieved not to have a little sister.

Dean raised his head again, trying to get a better look out the window. There wasn't much around . . . on first glance, he'd guess they were somewhere in Nevada. Great. Fucking great. It'll be days before we hit South Dakota.

Sam frowned at him again, eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror. "How did you know that?" he asked sharply.

"Know what?"

"South Dakota."

FuckThat was the problem with having these psychic abilities—the connection wasn't a one-way street, which meant Sam could read Dean too. It was tricky as hell, trying to get info from Sam without Sam being any the wiser. Dean tried to keep his thoughts from being too incriminating and bitterly wished he had access to the telekinesis too.

Sam was practically twitching in the front seat, impatient, suspicious. "Dean, how did you know?"

"Because I'm psychic, Sam," Dean said sarcastically, attempting to shrug his shoulders under the ropes around them. "Dude, didn't take a whole of guesswork—where the hell else would we be going? Maybe stop in at the Roadhouse for a beer or check in with all that family we don't have? I know, maybe we're going to Coney Island to ride some roller coasters and munch on some fucking cotton candy. Dude, give me some credit. I'm no college boy, but I'm not an idiot."

Sam watched him for a minute until the suspicion slowly relaxed from his face. "You know," he said lightly, "that was pretty bitchy for someone who keeps calling me a woman."

Dean was offended. "Dude. That wasn't bitchy. I am so not bitchy."

"Sounded pretty bitchy to me."

"I am not bitchy!"

Sam smiled and, to Dean's horror, he felt a smile tugging at his lips too. He shook his head, eyes already rolling. Sam, man, this isn't going to work. I know what you're doing.

"What am I doing?"

"Being an idiot." Sam snorted and looked back to the road, while Dean maneuvered his body into something that almost resembled sitting up. "Seriously, Sam, you can talk to me like I'm still the brother you grew up with. And I can pretend I care about you, if I think it will get me something I want. But you and I, we're nothing anymore, and nothing you can say or do will change that. You can call me a jerk and I can call you a bitch, but when I get out of this, I'm gonna tear your fucking head off." Dean felt a small bit of satisfaction at the kernel of despair he gleaned from Sam. "Time to face facts, Sammy. You can't share and care your way out of this one, bro."

Ryan's face, bloody, broken. Ear resting on his palm instead of his head.

"Trust me," Sam said quietly. "Trust me, I know."

"Then what's the plan?" Dean asked, exasperated, because for all his psychic wonder he couldn't figure it out. He couldn't get the details from Sam's brain, just chud and Demon and trick, trick, trick. There was some kind of double cross to be played, some card up his sleeve that Sam didn't want the Demon to see, but Dean couldn't figure out what the card was. Just chud and chud and soon and save Dean.

Sam seemed to be ignoring him, which wasn't entirely unexpected. He stared moodily out the windshield, eyes on the virtually empty road. After a minute, he tapped his finger thoughtfully against the steering wheel. "Dean?" he asked slowly. "Why did Dad hit you?"

"Which time?"

"Which—what do you mean which—" Sam's eyes practically bugged out of his head. "He hit you more than once?"

Dean shrugged. "Like I said before, Sam. Just because you slept through everything doesn't mean it never happened." He shook his head, almost smiling. "You've always been like that, you know. If it didn't happen in Sammyverse, why, it never happened at all. The things that went on right in front of your face and you never saw em, not once." Dean laughed bitterly. "And you were supposed to be the smart one."

Sam clenched his jaw in the front seat, looked like he was trying to swallow down a lemon. He took a breath, probably counted to ten, before asking, "How often? How often did he hurt you?"

Dean watched Sam for a minute, amused, and then decided to take some pity on his sad sack of a brother. "Dude, relax," he said calmly. "Wasn't that big of a deal, didn't even happen that often. Daddy wasn't a child abusing bastard, so you can put away the Puppy Eyes of Doom now, okay? He was an asshole, sure, a negligent, pathetic, sad excuse for a father, yeah, but not really abusive. Even he was drank, he was mostly just . . . broody."

Broody? Sam thought incredulously."Broody?" Sam asked. "When was Dad broody? When did he have time to be broody? Dad didn't put up with that bullshit; don't you remember all those lectures, man? 'Son, the time you're wasting away mourning, you could be using to kill this evil sonofabitch.' Dad was a lot of things, but he wasn't broody."

"Jesus Christ," Dean drawled. "Man, I'm beginning to think you don't have an upstairs or a downstairs brain. Christ, Sam, where do you think you get it from? You see me stare out a lot of windows when I was kid, sit and whine in dark corners, write some poetry, maybe? Sure, Dad was a lot less obvious about it than you are, but get a few drinks in the guy, and Dad was maudlin as fuck, man, all, 'What am I doing with my life? What am I doing to my children? Blah blah blah." Dean shook his head. "Obviously didn't bother him too much, because hey? Not like we ever settled down. Not like he ever gave us a chance for a life. Just kept us moving and whined like he didn't have a choice. Jesus, man, you're so much like him I want to puke sometimes."

Sam was quiet for a minute. "You seem so mad at him," he said softly.

"Of course I'm mad at him! Why shouldn't I be? That man wasn't fit to raise children; hell, that man wasn't fit to raise hamsters! He fucked us over but good, Sammy; he fucked up our entire lives. I thought you, at least, would understand that." Dean paused, slowly nodding to himself. "Oh, I forgot. That's right. Now that Dad's dead, he was like Father of the Year, right? You wish you spent more time with him, wish you paid a little more attention, been a better son? Well, fuck that, Sam. Fuck it all to Hell. You don't get to recreate memories of people just to make it a little easier on you. Dad was an ass and now he's in Hell, right where he fucking belongs. You should be hitting the roof, man. You should be fucking celebrating."

"Well, I'm not."

"No fucking kidding." Dean laughed. "Godamn, Sammy. I tried to give you a sense of humor. What the hell ever happened to it, huh?"

Lost it when I lost my brother, Sam thought, and Dean rolled his eyes. Jesus, Sam, it's not like you were the funniest motherfucker before that.

Sam looked back at him again, startled. He had that suck-lemon face again, and his forehead was practically folded over in thought. "Dude, seriously," Dean said, exasperated. "What?"

Sam just shook his head. "Nothing," he said shortly. Dean rolled his eyes again and dropped his head back to the seat. Godamn, being tied up like this was as uncomfortable as fuck.

"You never did answer my question."

"Sweet Christ, Sam. Not even God can keep up with your questions."

Sam ignored this. "Why did Dad hurt you? Back it the motel, at Christmas. He practically threw you across the room, man."

"Did more than that," Dean said sourly. When Sam continued to stare at him through the rearview mirror, Dean blew out an exasperated sigh. "Jesus, Sam, we already went over this. The guy was drunk. Pissed off drunk instead of maudlin drunk. Rare, but it happens. Not a big deal."

Sam shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Not buying it."

"What's not to buy? He was drunk. You saw it."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I did. I also saw you that you were reading something. You were honest-to-God reading something and he was pissed as hell because of it. I couldn't see what it was, though." Sam raised one eyebrow, silently asking.

"Oh, the fuck you care, man? That was almost twenty years ago! Who gives a damn about some stupid fucking book?"

"I do," Sam said quietly. "Tell me."

Dean snorted. "And if I don't? You'll what . . . send me up to my room with no supper?"

"No," Sam said calmly. "But I bet I can find a radio station playing Celine Dion. In fact," Sam said, pulling out a tape. "I think this is her greatest hits right here."

Dean stared at the tape in horror. "Why would you even have that?"

"Case of emergency," Sam said, smirking. "Anyway, I could go for a few ballads. We'll just play the tape over and over, until we get to Bobby's."

That's, like, DAYS worth of Celine Dion. "You wouldn't," Dean said flatly.

Sam's smile was cold. "Watch me," he said.

He started to put the tape in and Dean held his hands up in surrender. Well, tried to hold his hands up; as they were tucked in around his body, they didn't move much. "All right, all right, Jesus," Dean said. "For Christ's sake and you thought cutting off some random kid's tongue was friggin torture."

Sam flinched and put the tape down. He didn't respond to the barb, though, just raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting.

Dean sighed. "Fine. Fine, all right, look. This was the deal. Before Mom died, she used to read me bedtime stories, all right? I mean, real Hallmark, lovey-dovey, doting Mommy thing to do. And we'd go through all kinds of books. Some of them were just little picture books, some fairy tales, some just books that she liked. A lot of times they went over my head, but . . . I just liked listening to her voice, or whatever. Story didn't mean all that much to me."

"Anyway, so we're reading this one book for awhile, and it's a long one, you know, it's got real chapters and all. So I'm getting kind of into it and every night I make her promise she'll read me more of it, cause I want to get to the end. Only we never do get to the end because a certain mutual friend decides to show up and burn the place down with her in it. Damn book burned along with everything else."

"So, that's when Dad starts moving us around, you know, hunting things and dodging CPS, and I got some shit on my mind. Like, I gotta stop my life and start taking care of you, cause Dad's not around a lot, you know, huntin or drinkin or doin whatever the hell else he did. And you were just a baby, so, you know . . . whatever. Mom was dead and Dad was . . . different . . . and kids books just weren't at the top of my list of priorities. And I forgot all about it for awhile, cause, hell, that was another life, right?"

"So one day, when I'm about seven, Dad had finally stopped moving us around so much. I mean, we still moved, but more like every three months instead of every three days, right? So we're staying in this town in North Carolina and I got this teacher there, real do-gooder type, very save the children, whales, shit, starfish, who knows? If something needed to be saved, well, this woman was on the job. Anyway, she noticed I didn't read so much, and that bugged her, of course, cause I had such potential. So, one day, she's like, 'Dean, sweetie, why don't you like to read?' and I'm like, 'Cause stories are stupid, bitch.' Which is pretty much how I felt about the whole thing—you're learning how to load a shotgun in under ten seconds, tell the difference between a werewolf and a wendigo, and the mouse eating a fuckin cookie just loses some of its dramatic tension, you know?"

"So Mrs. Save-the-Planet gets this real weepy look on her face, right, because children only play video games and the world's going to hell, blah blah, and she asks, all quiet-like, 'Aren't there any stories you're interested in?' And out of nowhere, just wham, I remember it, I remember Mom reading me that damn book that we never got to finish. Only it's been three years now and I don't remember a fucking thing about it—not what it's called, not what it's about, nothing. Like I said, three years. Fuckin lucky I remembered Mom, right?"

As a matter of fact, Dean had never considered himself lucky to remember his mother and had spent a good deal of his childhood being silently envious of Sam and his non-memories of her. But he'd never told Sam that before, and he didn't really see the need to tell it to him now. Nor did he think it was important to inform his brother of what a pussy little bitch he'd been—standing there in that classroom, realizing that he couldn't remember the last book his mother had read to him. Dean had started crying right then and there, right in front of that useless lump of a teacher.

He didn't really know who'd been more surprised by those tears—her or him.

"Anyway," Dean said, clearing his throat. "I can't remember that book and it gets to bugging me—kinda got desperate about it, to tell the truth, but there's not much I can do with absolutely nothing to go on. So it gets to be this kind of quest. You know, number three on the world's most pathetic checklists. Number one: Save Sammy. Number two: Make Dad Happy. Number three: Find the Book. Sad, right? Yeah, I knew it was sad even back then. But hey, when you're a sorry sack, you just get used to it, you know? So, yeah. Couldn't ask Dad about it. Didn't think he'd remember . . . but couldn't chance that he would. He didn't like to talk about her."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "And that I understood," he said. "Not talking about things—I knew that made it easier."

Only you didn't just stop talking about Mom, Sam thought. You stopped talking completely. Which, Dean realized, was kind of a lame thing to do, but he'd been a fucked up little kid, so it wasn't entirely his fault.

Dean did his best to ignore Sam's thoughts; better not to dwell on them anyway, if they didn't have to do with The Plan. "So, okay," Dean said. "Then we skip a few years until December of 1990. We're staying at some crap apartment and Dad's out and you're so godamned antsy that I thought you might die just from a huge spazz attack. So I took you to the library just to shut you the fuck up and it worked like a charm too, eyes all bugged out and fingers running over book covers like they were fuckin gold. I was bored of my skull, of course, so I just started walking around, keeping an eye on you but just wandering, glancing at random books and stuff and then I just—I just saw it. I saw the book and I just knew that it was the one."

Sam squinted and Dean could feel him searching back in his mind, trying to remember that day that they spent in the library together. But he was coming up with nothing. "What book was it?" he finally asked.

Dean sighed again. There was a reason he hadn't wanted to divulge this. "Alice in Wonderland," he said. "Can you believe that? Such a fuckin chick story." He thought about that. "Was kind of acid trippy, though."

He expected Sam to comment on that, tell him the meaning behind the story or give him the full fucking Lewis Carroll biography, but Sam kept his geek knowledge to himself, for once. "So you checked it out," Sam said. "And Dad caught you reading it?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Coupla nights later. He came home and, well, you saw."

Sam shook his head. "I didn't see all of it," he said. "You didn't show me everything, Dean."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said. "What is with your freakish nostalgic flashbacks? What, the past was so much fun, you want to relive every second of it? Is that it?"

Sam didn't answer and Dean struggled to sit up again. "The whole time you were coming to find me, your head was stuck in the past. All, 'let's remember the good times' instead of focusing on getting the godamn job done. And now we're driving to South Dakota, going to save my soul or whatever, and you're, what? Interested in some freakin book? What the hell do you really want, Sam?"

My brother back, Sam thought. "Answers," Sam said. "Tell me, Dean. What's it gonna cost you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "You want to stroll down Memory Lane, fine. But it's not gonna make you happy, Sam. There's a reason I protected you from this shit."

Sam put a hand to his side, where Dean had stabbed him only a few days ago. "I don't think I have to worry about your protection anymore, Dean."

Dean smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess we're a little past that, aren't we?"

II.

But I don't want to go among mad people.

Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here.

There was no reason that quote should be swirling through his brain; no reason at all that it was the only thing he could think. But that's what he was thinking when his father shoved him across the room, shoved him so hard he might as well have picked him up and thrown him.

Dean felt his feet leave the ground and tried to put them back down again (either the well was very deep or she fell very slowly) but instead his head found the floor first and it cracked hard. Dean thought a hammer might have done less damage.

The world didn't quite go black, but it seemed to seriously consider it for some time. By the time Dean's vision cleared, his Dad was standing, looming, over him.

We're all mad here . . . I'm mad . . . you're mad . . .

"Godammit, Dean. I gave you an order! You will NOT read that book! You will NOT!" Dad kicked Dean in the side, still muddy boots staining Dean's white shirt brown. "Do you understand me? Do you UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes," Dean tried to say, to whimper, but Dad didn't want to listen. Couldn't listen, maybe, didn't make much of a difference, in the end. Dad kicked again. And again. Dean's white T-shirt was now both brown and red. He tried not to cry, because he wasn't some little kid, but this was his dad, this was . . . this just wasn't right. He felt tears trickle slowly down his cheeks as he looked up at his father. "Dad, please," he whispered.

Almost 18 years later, Dean would look up at his father in a similar way, blood pouring down from his chest as he stood pinned to a wall. Sometimes, Dean believed that it was this moment John flashed back to, this moment that allowed his dad to break through the Demon's hold for just a few seconds.

But neither of them knew anything about that right then. Right then, it was just Dad standing over his broken son, his son who he had broken . . .

His dad hesitated, seeming to see the boy in front of him for the first time. His foot had already swung back, though, still in mid-kick, and the hesitation cost him his balance, leading him to land hard on his ass. Dean took the time to scoot away from Dad fast, his arms still held up protectively around his head.

Dad made a strange sound.

Dean backed up a little more, looked past his father to the bedroom where Sammy slept. Sammy hadn't made a sound, hadn't come running out or started to cry, so he must have been still asleep. Dad sometimes said that Sammy could sleep through thunderstorms—which wasn't acceptable. That could be a liability. Sam couldn't protect himself; he was still real little, and Dean needed to get up so he could keep Dad from hurting him.

He'd have to walk by Dad to do that, though.

Dean took a breath and stood up, almost cried again at how much it hurt to do that. He edged around his dad carefully, making his way towards the bedroom, when Dad made that strange sound again. His face was pressed into his hands.

Dean realized that Dad was crying.

"Dad," Dean said, uncertainly. Dad started and lifted his hands away from his face.

"Dean," Dad slurred, reaching out with one trembling hand. Dean immediately backed up and the hand dropped heavily back to the ground. Dad's eyes dropped as well, bleary and red-rimmed. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so damn sorry." He started to cry again, like big time crying, like weeping.

And Dean couldn't just watch him like that, couldn't just stand there and let his father cry in front of him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Dean lowered himself to the ground and sort of crawled over to his father, only a few feet away. "Dad," he said quietly as he put a hand on his father's arm. "Dad, it's okay. It's okay, Dad. It's okay."

Dad took a hold of him and hugged him fiercely, so tightly it hurt Dean's back and ribs, but he pretended it didn't, pretended he couldn't feel anything at all. After a few minutes, Dean wormed his way out of Dad's grip, got him by the shoulders when Dad started to tip forward. "Come on," Dean said quietly. "You should go to bed."

Dad nodded but didn't move. He seemed relatively content to pass out on the floor. Dean stood up and pulled on his father's arms, eventually getting him to something that almost resembled standing. They made it over to the couch, Dad listing to the side the whole way. His eyes were already closed as Dean helped lower him to the cushions.

"Sorry," Dad muttered, his eyes still closed, more asleep than awake. "Sorry, Dean, sorry, sorry . . . sorry . . ."

Dean grabbed a blanket from the floor and put it over his father, watching him until the muttering stopped and the buzz-saw snoring started. Then Dean went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up. He almost lost it, once, and then swallowed back the tears.

When he went into the bedroom, Sam was sleeping away, dead to the world. Dean climbed into bed with him listened to his brother breathe. At least he didn't hurt Sammy, Dean thought. At least, at least . . . it's not that bad . . . it's not that bad . . .

Dean almost started crying again, and he wiped his hand across his eyes angrily. You're a big boy, he told himself. You can do this; you're fine. You're fine.

He'd hadn't been a kid in a long time. He could deal with this. He was fine.

Still, he slept a little closer to Sam that night.

Not like Sam would ever know.

III.

"Jesus," Sam said softly. "Jesus."

It wasn't like his dad didn't drink. It wasn't like Sam had never seen him drink, or that he thought that John was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. Jesus, he sure as hell wasn't that. John Winchester was a hard bastard. He didn't need a drink to be downright mean. But in all the arguments that they had ever had, Dad had never once laid a hand on him.

But, apparently, he had laid one on Dean.

"Yeah," Dean said, cracking a dry grin. "Man, those were some seriously fun times there, Sammy. You know, I can see the appeal in digging all this stuff up. Hey, lets talk about the time you shot me next?"

Sam ignored that. He was trying to remember anything about that time, and he frowned as a sudden memory came to him. "I don't remember him hitting you," Sam said, "but . . . I do remember Dad seeming sort of . . . wrong? Upset. Ashamed, I guess, although I didn't really think of it like that then. But he was different. He . . . he made breakfast." Sam laughed a little, although not really amused. "Man, Dad never made breakfast."

Dean snorted. "Well, you know how it is," he said. "Kick your son around a little, and then make him some waffles the next day. Gosh, everything must be all better, right?"

Sam ignored that too. "Waffles," he said instead. "You're right, they were waffles. I remember because they were kind of . . . soggy."

"Dad couldn't even make amends without fucking it up," Dean said sourly.

"No, but it was more than that," Sam said. He nodded to himself. "I remember more than that."

IV.

Sam woke up with an arm wrapped around his neck. "Dean," he muttered groggily. "Dean, you're choking me."

Dean groaned a little and removed his arm from Sam's neck. Sam rolled over to look at him. Dean's head was almost completely buried by the pillow.

"Dean," Sam said quietly. "Dean, Dean, wake up."

"Nuh."

"DEAN." Dean didn't move. "Dean, something smells funny. C'mon, wake up." Sam poked Dean in the side.

Dean reacted instantly. He issued a muffled sort of yelp and bent over, curling his whole body into a ball. Sam instantly drew his hand back, worried. "Dean?" he asked.

Dean groaned again and slid his head out partially from under the pillow. One side of his face was all bruised up and his lower lip was split and puffy. His left eye was swollen almost shut. He used the right one to glare at Sam.

Sam's eyes got huge. "Dean?" he asked. "Dean, what happened?"

The scowl melted off Dean's face. He looked down at the bed sheets. "Nothing, Sammy," he whispered. "It's early. Go back to sleep." He rolled over and slid his head back under the pillow.

"But Deeeeean." Dean flipped him off. Sam didn't know what that really meant, but he knew Dean thought it was pretty cool. He flipped people off all the time whenever he thought they weren't looking. Sam did it cause Dean did it but Dad caught him once and gave them both hell for it. Dean wouldn't talk to him for hours. Sam decided he'd never flip anyone off again.

Dean still did it all the time, though.

"Not supposed to do that," Sam told him. "Dad'd be mad."

Dean seemed to freeze under the covers. His knees moved closer to his chest and he went deeper under the blankets.

"Deeeeean!"

"Shuddup, you big turd."

"No, you shut up."

"No, you shut up."

"No, you—"

There were footsteps outside the doors and Dean reacted instantly. He shot out from under his pillow and he clamped one hand over Sam's mouth. Sam tried to pry it away, but Dean wouldn't let him. He watched the door with wide eyes. Sam watched Dean the same way.

All those bruises on his face, his body . . .

Maybe it was a monster.

It could have been a monster. Sam knew all about monsters. There were lotsa them and they were bad and his Daddy was good and he killed em. But maybe he didn't kill all of them and one had gotten in and hurt Dean. Maybe it was standing outside the door right now. Maybe it was waiting for them to come out.

Sam tried to open his mouth again and Dean shook his head. There was silence for what felt like a long time until the footsteps finally moved away. Dean carefully lifted his hand away from Sam's face, his eyes still steady on the door.

Sam gripped Dean's hand hard. "Is it a monster?" he whispered.

Dean looked at him sharply. He frowned, starting to shake his head, and then gave up and just shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something and then sniffed the air instead. Dean gave Sam a questioning look.

"I know," Sam said quietly. "It smells strange. Funny. Good." It really did smell good; it smelled like restaurants, like butter and food, but home wasn't supposed to smell like that. Sam looked at Dean's bruises and knew not to trust it.

"It could be a trap," he whispered to Dean. "Could be like the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel." His tummy rumbled because he was hungry, but he knew it wasn't safe.

Dean almost smiled at him, but his face still looked pinched, worried. He glanced up at the door and bit his split lip, cursing immediately after he did so. "You stay," Dean whispered, letting go of Sam's hand. "You stay. I'll go."

Dean started to get up but Sam grabbed his hand again before he could. "Dean," he said urgently.

"It's okay, Sammy. Leggo."

"No." Sam held on harder. "Dean, it could hurt you again."

Dean's face crumpled then, almost like he was going to cry, but Dean never ever cried—Sam was always the one who cried. Sam watched in wonder for a minute as Dean took a breath and let his face smooth out. "It's okay," Dean said again. "The monster's gone. I'm just making sure."

He slid his wrist out of Sam's grasp and walked tentatively towards the door. After a minute, he opened it but didn't move or say a word.

The anticipation became too much for Sam, watching Dean watch the house. He crawled out of bed and ended up on his hands and knees, peeking around Dean's legs to look at the living room. Dean glanced down at him and hissed. "I told you to stay."

Sam didn't pay any attention. "Dad's cooking," he said.

It wasn't that Dad never cooked. He'd made hamburgers before. He loaded his hamburgers with all kinds of stuff, but all Sam liked was meat and bread. Sometimes, Dad helped Dean make something—once they'd even had tacos—but usually, meals came out of a can, and breakfast was always some kind of cereal.

But now . . . now Daddy was making eggs. Sam could see them, scrambling away. There were waffles too, and bacon! Sam loved bacon—all of them did. He wasn't sure where the monster went, but it couldn't be here, not if Daddy was making breakfast. Sam squirmed under Dean's slightly parted legs and ran to his father, ignoring his brother's protests. "Daddy!"

Daddy smiled, but it was a sick sort of smile, like he was trying to feel good when he felt really yucky. He definitely looked a little ucky—like that time Sam ate Chinese food. Dad said he'd like it, but Sam hadn't liked it at all. He'd thrown up for two days straight. He was never eating Chinese food, not ever again. He wondered if Dad had eaten some Chinese food too.

"Daddy, what's wrong? You sick?"

Dad shook his head. "No, bud," he said quietly. "Just a headache." He glanced at the food on the stove. "Thought I'd try my hand at making some chow."

Sam nodded solemnly. "That's a lot of chow," he said seriously. He looked up and saw that Dean was still standing hesitantly in the doorway. "It's okay, Dean," Sam told him. "There's no monster! It's just Dad."

Dean and Dad both flinched. Dad turned to look at Dean as Dean moved almost unconsciously backwards into the bedroom. Dad looked . . . strange . . . as he looked at Dean. "Made some breakfast," Dad said softly.

Dean didn't move for almost a minute. Finally, he shrugged and edged cautiously out of the bedroom. The sunlight from the window caught him full in the face, made the unbruised part of his skin look golden. He came to stand in the kitchen, just a little in front of Sam.

Dad opened his mouth to say something and then turned away instead. "Almost ready," he said gruffly. "Go ahead, sit yourselves down." Dean nodded silently, ushering Sam to their little table before pouring two glasses of milk. He wrapped Sam's hands around one glass, frowning.

Be careful, Dean was saying. Don't spill.

"I won't," Sam promised. He was real good about not spilling. He sipped his milk slowly and then put it down as Dad served him a plate of food. Dean sat next to him, a little closer than he normally liked to sit. Dad sat across from them, further away.

"Dig in," Dad said quietly.

Sam did, because he was hungry—Dad said he was ALWAYS hungry—and even though the waffles tasted kind of funny, the eggs and the bacon were real good. Usually, Dean ate even more than he did, a lot of bad stuff that wasn't good for you, but Dean wasn't eating much right then and Dad wasn't eating at all.

Sam started to wonder if he was doing something wrong. "Dad?" he asked. "Aren't you hungry?"

Dad looked at him, almost startled. He'd been watching Dean almost the entire time. "Not really, Sammy," he said, shaking his head. He looked back at Dean. "Is it good?"

Dean looked at Dad, nodded once.

Sammy looked back and forth at the two of them. "I like it," he offered, confused.

Dad glanced at him again, smiling weakly. "That's good, Sammy. That's good."

The phone rang and Dad sighed before he got up to get it. Sam immediately leaned towards Dean. "Are you mad at Daddy?" he whispered.

Dean blinked. He shook his head once.

"You seem mad at him." Sam could understand being mad at Daddy, because Daddy made him mad all the time. He never answered any of Sam's questions and sometimes he yelled, which Sam didn't like. "If you want," Sam offered. "I could be mad at him too."

Dean almost smiled at that, but ended up shaking his head again. No thanks, Sammy, he was saying. That probably won't help us here.

"Okay," Sam said, shrugging. "If you say so." It didn't feel very okay, though; in fact, it felt really, really wrong. Dean didn't always talk so much—more than he used to, but not always, not consistently—but he was always, always eating. Daddy would say Dean not eating was the sign of the poc-lipse, or something.

Dean seemed so sad. Sam didn't like him sad. He decided it was his job to cheer Dean up.

So he threw some soggy waffle at him.

Dean looked up, startled. The piece of waffle had hit his forehead and bounced off into his lap. Syrup was now tracking slowly down his bruised cheek. Dean scowled at his brother and threw him a warning glance. No, Sammy, he was saying. Dad's not in the mood for this right now.

Sam launched another piece. This one hit Dean on the nose.

Dean rolled his eyes, which meant Dude. He turned around to look for Dad again, but when he looked back, he was grinning a little. He flung some of his eggs at Sam's hair.

Sam shrieked with laugh. He tried pelting Dean with bacon. Dean ducked and the bacon flew over his head, into Dad's leg as he walked back into the room.

Dean dropped the syrup bottle he had grabbed. It hit the floor with a loud thud. He looked downwards, pale again. Dad had that face that meant he disapproved.

Sam glared at his dad. Dad was ruining Sam's plan.

"Food isn't cheap, boys," Dad said sternly. "Can't afford to waste it so casually."

Dean nodded, sinking further into his seat. Sam considered sticking his tongue out at his father. He decided against it, ultimately, but crossed his arms and continued to frown. Dad wasn't really looking at him, though. He was watching Dean again, looking . . . regretful?

There was silence in the kitchen as Dad watched his boys dripping bits of breakfast food. Finally, he sighed and said, "There's a job in California. I want to be packed and ready to go. Two hours."

Sam and Dean both looked up. "We're moving?" Sam asked incredulously. "Now?"

"No, not now, Sam," Dad snapped. "I've already paid next month's rent—I'm not wasting money on a place that we're not even living in. We'll stay at a motel—the hunt shouldn't last more than a week. Then, we'll be back, living here. Okay?"

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Sam didn't want to hear him defend Dad. "But why do we have to go?" he whined. "I have the pageant on Friday."

"We'll be back for the pageant," Dad said shortly. "We should be back by Wednesday at the latest."

"But what if we're not?" Sam asked. "What if it takes longer, what if we're late—"

"Then we're late, Sammy," Dad snapped, obviously losing his patience. "It's just a damn Christmas pageant. You think a Christmas pageant is more important than saving lives?"

No, but, "It is important!" Sam cried. "I'm supposed to play Rudolph. You can't not have a Rudolph."

"Godammit, Sammy!" Dad said, one hand going to his forehead. "You listen to me. I'm the father in this house; I'm the one giving orders here—"

Dad faltered suddenly, looking very pale and a little nauseous. He looked quickly over at Dean. Dean was looking at his feet.

Sam nudged Dean, but he wouldn't look up. Sam frowned. Dean didn't ignore Sam, not when he wasn't teasing.

Dad closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, he went and knelt in front of Dean. Dean still didn't look up, though, so Dad put a hand to the side of Dean's bruised face. Dean pulled back and Dad winced, as if Dean had hit him. "I'm going to make this up to you, Dean," Dad said. "I swear to you, Dean. I'm going to make this okay."

Sam looked at the two of them, Dean so quiet, Dad so soft. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like it, not at all. Dean said he wasn't mad at Dad, but he must have been mad about something. "What's wrong?" he demanded of his father. "Did you let the monsters hurt Dean?"

Dad looked at him sharply, his mouth hanging open a little. Then, to Sam's astonishment, Dad's eyes filled with tears. He reached out with one hand and touched Sam's face too. "It'll never happen again," he told them both. "I promise you, boys; it'll never happen again."

Sam didn't know what to do. He was still mad about them leaving, and he couldn't stand to see Dean so sad—he wanted to yell at Dad for making Dean upset. But Dad was almost crying and Dad never cried, like, even less than Dean, and Sam couldn't yell at him when he looked like that, could he?

Sam didn't know what to do. He looked at Dean for help.

Dean stood up from the chair, biting his split lip again, and, very tentatively, gave their dad a hug. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. I believe you."

V.

"We never did get back in time for that pageant," Sam mused. "I can't remember what Dad was hunting, but we spent Christmas in that motel. Dad said that the toys were because of that, because he had broken his promise, but even that I knew he was lying. Dad would never have apologized for saving lives."

"Yeah, apologies weren't really his style," Dean agreed. "Then again, what's the point of an apology, anyway? Sorry's just a word. You either do something or you don't do it." Not that he really expected Sam to understand that, though. Sam was full of useless apologies. He was always saying sorry like it meant something.

"I am sorry," Sam said. "I wish I'd put it together. It's like those memories . . . they never connected . . . I never stopped to consider that it wasn't a monster."

"Yeah," Dean said mildly. "That's cause your kind of an idiot, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "Guess I am."

Sam moped silently for a minute, and Dean smacked the back of his head into the door. "Jesus," he said. "Stop beating yourself up over it, man. I mean, at least you're not alone, right? I was pretty much an idiot too. Dad promised it'd never happen again, and I believed him, remember? I believed everything Dad ever said. At least you weren't stupid enough to do that."

Sam raised an eyebrow, spared a glance backwards at him. "You worried about my feelings, man?" he asked.

"Fuck, no," Dean said truthfully. "I'm worried about my own fucking eardrums. Jesus, Sam, I don't know if I can take another godamned sob story. Don't you have anymore of that happy juice to slip into my veins?"

Not enough, Sam thought. Outloud, he said, "Yeah, Dean, okay. Next to crucifixion, this is real torture."

"Oh, be a bitch about it, why don't you?" Dean grumbled. "Jesus, it could have been worse. I could have had you drawn and quartered or something." He'd seen this movie once, The Hitcher (they'd done a remake, but he hadn't bothered to see it), where this chick was tied between two trucks and slowly pulled apart. He pictured Sam there, his arms stretching one way, his freakish long legs stretching the other . . . no, Dean thought regretfully. No, that's too elaborate. That's how you get into this mess in the first place.

Still. Did sound like fun, though.

Sam was blah-ing away from the front seat, and Dean realized he'd been completely tuning him out. By the time he tuned back in, Sam was talking about friggin memories again. "In the picture," Sam was saying, "our picture of that Christmas in the motel, you're reading a book. Is it . . . is it that book? The one Dad caught you reading?"

"Well, yeah, Sam," Dean said, exasperated. "Dad didn't just get me some random book."

Sam nodded. "I didn't think you'd like it," he said slowly. "I remember you opening it and being sure that you wouldn't like it."

Dean remembered that too. He had torn away the wrapping paper, figuring he'd get a new knife or some survival gear or something, and instead saw the book there, waiting, in his hands. Sam had been watching him, looking on with wide eyes. He'd gone over to his father right away, frowning. "Dad," Sam had whispered loudly. "Dean doesn't like books."

Dean looked up at them but couldn't speak. He thumbed through the pages, feeling a little awed and more than a little numb.

Dad looked back at him, a regretful smile on his face. "I don't know, dude," he had said to Sammy. "I think Dean might like this one, after all."

VI.

Dean sat in the doorway of the bathroom, his fingers trailing over his copy of Alice in Wonderland. The book was pretty battered, dog-eared and repeatedly underlined, but that didn't matter to Dean. The book was his. Dad had gotten it.

A particularly loud splash caused Dean to look up. Sammy was sitting in the bathtub, playing with his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls—they were on some kind of scuba diving expedition to save the world or something. Used to be, Dean took baths with his little brother, washed Sammy's hair for him, made sure he didn't drown. Now, though, Sammy was old enough to wash his own hair. So, Dean just watched him from the doorway.

He still didn't quite trust Sammy not to drown.

"Hey, bud," Dad said from behind him. Dean's eyes snapped upward to look at his father. He started to rise, but Dad was already sitting down. Dad looked towards Sammy. "How's the rugrat?" he asked.

Dean snorted. The rugrat in question was using his Leonardo doll to scale the top of the shampoo bottle. "He's Sammy," Dean said, shrugging, and Dad laughed. They watched Sammy for awhile as Sammy splashed around, oblivious.

Dean felt it when Dad's focus shifted back to him, but he didn't say anything, preferring to wait. Eventually, Dad said, "Son . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it happened."

Dean nodded, because he already knew that. "It's okay," he lied.

"It's not," Dad said. "It's not, and I know that this book doesn't change anything. But . . . it's all . . . it's all I can . . ."

"It's okay," Dean said quickly. "It's okay."

This time, Dad nodded. He took the book carefully out of Dean's hands and asked, "Do you . . . do you want me to read it to you?"

Dean looked up incredulously. "Uh, Dad," he said. "I'm eleven. I think I can manage this one on my own."

Dad snorted softly. He handed the book back to Dean and stood up. Dean turned his attention to Sammy, now using his soap bar as a surfboard for Raphael. "You know," Dad said quietly, "if you ever need to talk about her . . ."

Dean glanced up. His father's shoulders were set, his jaw clenched—ready to go into battle, so to speak. He didn't want to talk about her, probably didn't even want to think about her. But he would, if Dean asked; he'd do it for his son. Then he'd probably go out and have a drink to recuperate.

The bruises on Dean's face had faded. The ones around his ribcage had not.

"No," Dean said. "That's okay, Dad."

Dad nodded, like that was the end of it, but didn't move from where he sat. "If you're sure," Dad said, giving an unusual second chance. "If you have anything you want to talk about, if you have any questions . . . you can talk to me, Dean."

Questions. As if that was a possibility, as if he might not know enough about his mother. The few memories that he'd managed to hold on to . . . how could that ever be enough? Dean had so many questions he didn't know where to begin. What was she like, how did she and Dad meet, what exactly did she do for a living? Did she have a favorite color? Was she a unicorns and daisies kind of girl, or did she watch sports and listen to rock n roll? Did she love him—did she love him as much as Sammy? Did she love him as much as he had loved her? Why'd she name him Dean? What was her maiden name? What was her middle name—he didn't know his own mother's middle name. How could be a good son and not know something like that? How could he be a good son and not remember who his mother was?

Sammy had an excuse. He was too little to remember anything about her. But Dean should have fought harder, fought harder to hold on.

He wanted to ask Dad to remind him, to fill him up with everything that he had lost.

But he remembered Dad on his knees sobbing, Dad saying, "Godammit, Dean. I gave you an order!" Dad crying, Dad kicking him, Dad looking at Dean like he didn't know who he was. "Do you understand me? Do you UNDERSTAND?"

"No," Dean said, not looking at is father. "No, it's okay." I don't really need to know.

VII.

"You don't know her middle name?" Sam asked, seemingly stunned by the idea. Dean rolled his eyes skyward. Why should he know his mother's middle name?

"I don't remember it, Sam," Dean snapped, tired of this pointless conversation. "It's not like we talked about it. Mom didn't make pancakes and say, "Here, you go, Dean. Oh, and my middle name is Annie."

Sam almost smirked at that, but still looked a little too bewildered to truly be amused. "Yeah, yeah, I know, just . .. I just assumed you'd . . . ask . . . or something . . ."

"Well, did you ask, Sam?" Dean sneered at him. "Do you know Mom's middle name? Have you ever even thought about it?"

"Elizabeth," Sam said quietly, and Dean rolled his eyes again.

"Well," he snapped, "that's just great. Of course, you know her name. Of course, you weren't scared to ask. Mary Elizabeth Winchester . . . does that make you feel better? Do you feel closer to the mother that died for your sorry ass?"

Sam actually stopped the car in the middle of the road, and then remembered to pull over quickly before they got rear-ended. He turned around to stare, wide-eyed, at Dean. "How did you know that? You said you didn't know her middle name."

Dean blinked at him. "Well," he said slowly, "you just said it, Sam."

But Sam shook his head at him. "No, Dean," he said. "I didn't say it. I just thought it. I thought her name." Sam met his eyes, confusion turning to understanding and grim resolve.

Well, shit, Dean though.

Then he smiled. "Good guess?"

VIII.

Sam quickly pulled over to the side of the road and used the last of their "happy juice" to put Dean back to sleep. As his eyes fluttered, he heard Sam flip open his cell phone. Bobby? Man, we've got another problem.

Then he was out. When he was back, Dean was no longer tied up in the car. Instead, he was standing on the side of some road, trying to remember how he had gotten there. He had no idea where there was, though, because a thick fog had settled down and had completely enveloped him. The fog was so dense that Dean couldn't see his own feet. He had no choice but to blindly pick a direction and start walking.

It seemed like he walked for a very long time, occasionally losing his balance in a world made up almost completely of smoke. Eventually, the fog began to recede and eventually disappeared entirely to reveal a carnival before him.

The carnival was fucked up. That was the only way to describe it. The lights were just out of control, man, just insane colors flashing everywhere. Kids fed peanuts to the wendigo locked up, and vampires bought candy apples, munching on them as an appetizer before turning on the popcorn vendor.

Dean walked by them, watching warily and keeping his distance. The whole place was like an acid trip. Dean would know, because he'd been on one. Once.

Dean bought a corn dog and saw Andy out of the corner of his eye, wearing a bright red and white pinstriped suit. "Step right up, step right up," Andy was saying, tipping his top hat in Dean's direction. "Step right up to see Father Figures Row."

Dean walked over to him, raising his eyebrows at the cane Andy was twirling. Andy grinned at him and then looked at the other kids that were swarming around the booth. "That's right, step right up for Father's Figure Row. Only a dollar to play and all kinds of prizes if you win. Knock each dad out with this here baseball and whatever you want, you got it, kids." Andy leaned over to Dean, winking at him. "Dude, how awesome is this gig? Am I the shit or what?"

Dean looked at his pinstriped suit with contempt. "Man, I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Andy looked wounded. "Dude," he said. "Harsh." Then he pushed Dean in front of the booth and handed him one of the baseballs. "Come on," he said. "This game was sort of made for you."

Dean looked closer at Father Figures Row. There were people lined up, each of them tied down on their knees: Dad, Bobby, and the Guy the Demon was always wearing. "Jesus," Dean muttered. "This is the most fucked up thing I've ever seen."

"Lord's name, Dean," Pastor Jim said from behind him. He stepped up to stand next to Dean, occasionally munching on his blue cotton candy. There was a six inch slit deep in his throat. As he casually chewed, blue fluff dripped out of the gash down his chest.

"I thought I taught you better than that," Jim said, tearing off another piece of cotton candy. "You're not supposed to take the Lord's name in vain, Dean."

"You're not supposed to be breathing," Dean reminded him. "What the hell are you doing here, man?"

Pastor Jim shrugged. "Oh, just watching the show." He pushed his glasses up and peered closer at the game. "Father Figures, huh? What am I, chopped liver?"

"No," Dean shrugged. "Just dead." He looked at the baseball in his hand and stepped up in line with his father. "Hey, Daddy," he said, nonchalantly tossing the ball in the air.

Dad stared at him, eyes watery and red. "Son," he said, "please."

Dean threw the baseball hard. It cracked his father in the center of his forehead. When the ball fell to the ground, Dean could see a bullet sized hole in his father's head.

Dad fell over, dead.

"One down!" Andy said. "One down! Two more and the prize is all yours!"

Dean picked up another baseball and walked to stand in front of Bobby. Bobby shook his head disapprovingly.

"Dean," he said mildly. "You'll be regrettin' it if you do."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Kind of doubt it." He threw the ball, this time into Bobby's throat. Bobby fell over.

"One more! This young man only has one more to go! Can he do it?"

"Of course, he can't," the Demon said, smiling confidently at Dean. "Boy, I saved you from all of this. I gave you a life, Dean. Where would you be without me?"

Dean looked at Andy. "Man's got a valid point," he said. He picked up a baseball and smiled at Yellow Eyes, who was suddenly looking a lot less certain. "On the other hand," Dean told the Demon. "When you sell your soul, you suddenly don't care so much about screwing over the guy who gave you a hand-up."

Dean threw the baseball into the Demon's left eye. Blood spurted everywhere and the Demon slumped forward, another dead body for the crowd to ooh and ahh at.

"Winner!" Andy shouted. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a winner!" He shook Dean's hand fervently and clapped him on the back. "Well, Mr. Winchester, time to collect your prize. What will it be, man? Purple teddy bear or a stuffed green gorilla?"

"Actually," Dean said. "I had a more special prize in mind."

Andy nodded appreciatively. "Dude," he said. "Gotta go to the gypsy tent for that, man."

"I know the way," somebody said from behind him. Dean looked down to see a creepy little blonde child standing in front of him—and when he thought creepy, he didn't mean all ghosty and dead. Instead, this girl was perky to the point of ridiculousness. Her pink dress appeared to be made entirely of ruffles.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the pink creature in front of him. "Yeah?" he asked her. "What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," the pink-thing said. Dean realized suddenly that this was supposed to be his daughter.

"Actually," Elizabeth said sweetly. "I'm the daughter you could have had, the daughter you were supposed to take care of you. This isn't the way it's meant to be. You're supposed to be winning a prize for me."

Dean laughed at that. "Sorry, darlin," Dean drawled. "I only play for keeps around here. Tell you what, though: you lead me to this gypsy tent of yours, and I won't slit your throat right here and now."

Andy shook his incredulously. "Dude," he said. "Seriously, man, you went all darkside on us."

Dean smiled at him. "Yeah," he said. "It's a lot more fun this way." Then he took a knife from his boot and stabbed Andy in the eye.

Fucker was just getting on his nerves.

Andy fell over, clutching at the knife for a minute before going rigid. Pastor Jim knelt next to him, doing some kind of benediction while still leaking blue cotton candy. "God save you," Jim said, more to Dean to Andy.

"God didn't save you," Dean reminded him. "Don't think he'd bother with something like me."

Dean thought about killing Jim too, trying to make sure the bastard stayed dead this time, but Elizabeth had disappeared and Dean ran off to find her. He didn't know how to get to the gypsy tent and he needed the little girl to guide him.

It seemed like Elizabeth had vanished, though. (Fucking white rabbit . . . sick of chasing her around.) Dean wandered aimlessly, looking at the various attractions. Jo was crawling around the side of the road, her body contorting into positions that Dean didn't even realize were possible. At first, it was actually kind of hot, then . . . kind of disturbing. Dean thought about going over there to fuck her, but he was a little worried she'd twist into some position and get stuck around him. That could be awkward.

Dean moved on. He saw Sam's dead girlfriend as well as that Sarah chick from New York . . .only now, they were Siamese twins, and they were fighting over Sam. "You can't have him!" Jessica shrieked at her "sister". "I'm his only true love! You're just the Chick of the Week!"

Sarah slapped Jessica. "Yeah," she said, "but I've got one advantage: I'm not dead!"

Jessica shrieked, and soon the twins were rolling around the ground, pulling each others hair and trying to hurt the other without hurting themselves. Dean watched this with some amusement for awhile before he heard his name being called, over and over.

Dean looked around, trying to see the little girl, but the sound seemed to be originating from the fun house. Dean went inside, finding himself in a room full of different sized mirrors. Only these mirrors didn't show Dean super tall or super skinny the way he thought they would. Instead, the mirrors showed him all the different Deans he could have been, a Fireman Dean, Dean as a groom, Dean as a father, playing with Elizabeth. Dean tried to smash the mirrors, erase the futures that could never be, but the glass just wouldn't seem to break.

"Silly," Elizabeth said calmly. "You can't get to the prize that way." She was standing a few feet away, just out of reach, and there was a boy standing next to her. He opened his mouth and there was no tongue. Ryan, Dean realized and was suddenly afraid.

It's your turn to be prey, Ryan said without moving his mouth. He smiled viciously at Dean, and Dean smelled something like wet dog. Blood, too, he could suddenly smell so much copper, and he thought, Shit, fuck. Fuck, it's a godamned werewolf.

He heard the werewolf snarling behind him and little Elizabeth giggling at the sound. Dean ran forward without turning around, ran faster than he thought he could possibly go. He turned corners in the funhouse blindly, always aware of the werewolf behind him, ready to pounce. Dean ran, dodging clowns when they jumped out at him (and what the hell are clowns doing here? This is my dream, not Sam's—but he didn't have time to focus on that, that vague idea of dream versus reality). There was an open, blue door at the end of a hallway and Dean jumped through it, knowing somehow that the werewolf couldn't pass.

He landed hard on his knees and cursed, looked at them to see if they were bleeding. When he lifted his head, Dean found himself in a tent, the air thick with incense and herbs. Missouri was sitting in front of a small table. There were Tarot cards spread across it.

"You're the gypsy?" Dean asked and then laughed. "Of course you are. Why wouldn't you be?"

Missouri raised an eyebrow at him. "You best be minding your tone with me, Dean Winchester," she said. "I won't suffer the likes of you."

Dean took out his gun and aimed it at her. "I think you will," he said flatly. "Now where the hell is my godamned prize?"

Missouri shook her head, not looking the least bit intimidated by his gun. "That's after," she told him calmly. "First, I have to read your cards."

"The fuck? Lady, does it looks like I want a fucking Tarot reading? All I want is my godamned prize!"

"And you'll get it, Sam," Missouri said. "After I read you your cards."

"Sam? I'm not Sam!"

"You're not?"

"No! I'm not Sam, Missouri. Jesus. I'm Dean."

"Are you now?" She pursed her lips. "Are you sure?"

Dean sighed and decided it was pointless to argue with a psychic who didn't even know which brother was standing in front of her. He went to sit in front of her table, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. She told him to shuffle the cards, and he did so, handing them back without much interest or anticipation. She laid the first card at the center of the table.

"Death," she intoned, as the Grim Reaper looked back at them.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Course," he said. "Ain't a damn Tarot reading without the Death card on the table."

Missouri ignored this. She laid out another card. "The magician," she said thoughtfully, as if this was very significant.

Dean snorted. "Really? Magic? In my life? Jeez, Missouri. Say it ain't so."

Missouri didn't even look up. She laid down a third card. It showed two people with their tongues stuck out, a blade above them, piercing both tongues. "Chud," Missouri said, looking almost afraid. "This is what you don't know."

Dean stared at the card. "You know," he said, "I'm not exactly up on my Tarot, not a New Age kind of guy, but you know, I'm pretty sure that just ain't normally in the deck."

"That's because this isn't a normal deck. There's nothing normal about your future, Dean."

"This isn't my fucking future! The Ritual of Chud? Jesus, it's not even real." And he knew it wasn't, because he'd looked it up when he was a kid. Sam had read this Stephen King book back then, this book called It, where this was this clown-monster-thing killing kids. Probably why Sam was afraid of clowns to begin with. Stupid asshole. You'd think he might spend his time being scared of the monsters that were real.

Anyway, Sam freaked himself right the hell out, and Dean had to read the whole damn thing just to see what scared his brother so much. Clowns. Jesus, Sam was useless. Dean really couldn't wait for his opportunity to kill him.

"It's just a story," Dean told Missouri. "I didn't remember at first, couldn't pinpoint where this stupid chud thought was coming from, but. . . that's all it is, a story, a lie. Chud is this ritual these kids use to get rid of their big-scary-clown monster or whatever. But I looked it up, Missouri. It ain't freaking real!"

"Every fictional ritual has its roots in something," Missouri reminded him, sounding for all the world like a high school history teacher. "Just because the Ritual of Chud isn't real doesn't mean that there's nothing real behind it. What do you really remember, Dean? What do you remember about Chud?"

Dean shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Not much," he said. "Something about a battle between two guys—a shaman, I think, and something called a taelus. The taelus is supposed to be some kind of some shapeshifter or whatever, the big, bad mojo, you know, evil has come to stay. The shifter and the taelus stick out their tongues and bite in to the others. Then, they have to tell riddles or some shit until the other one laughs." Dean thought about that, somewhat amused. "If that's Sam's great master plan . . . well, actually, it might work. Sam's got, like, no sense of humor. The Demon probably would be the one to laugh first."

Missouri returned her attention to her Tarot cards, laying down a fourth card. "Judgment," she said, looking at Dean. "You aren't worried, boy? You aren't worried at all?"

"Of what? A tongue-biting, joke fest?" Dean laughed. "If that's my brother's only line of defense, then no. I'm really not."

Missouri shook her head. "Boy, you can awful stupid when you set your mind to it. You think that's all he's got up his sleeve? Him and Bobby, you think they don't have a real plan? Your brother and Bobby are the magicians in all this, and they've got a card they haven't played yet. You're missing something important, you know. You're missing something big."

"I. Don't. Care," Dean snapped. He pointed the gun at Missouri's head again. "All I want is my prize. That's all I care about."

"You haven't won," she told him. "You think you have, but you're wrong. The fat lady hasn't sung yet."

Dean shrugged. "Then sing, bitch," he said, and shot her in the head.

Missouri fell forward, her cheek smacking into the Death card. Dean stood up and kicked her over; then, he knocked all the cards off the table. "Chud," he scoffed under his breath. "It doesn't mean a godamned thing."

He looked up and found that there was another room in the back of the gypsy tent. Dean knew his prize was there. He also knew what the prize was. He walked into the room and smiled at what was there.

Sam was in the center of the room, tied to a chair. He looked helplessly at his brother.

Dean put away his gun and pulled a knife out of his boot. Sam stared at the knife, his mouth hanging open.

"Please, don't," Sam said. "Please, man. I'm your brother."

Dean smiled. "I know," he said. "That's why this is so much fun."

He stuck the knife in Sam's gut, ripped it upwards all the way to Sam's throat. Pieces of Sam started to spill out across his lap. Dean thought Sam would scream, but Sam never screamed. He just looked at Dean, almost calmly now.

"Probably shouldn't have done that," Sam said blandly. "Don't think it was such a hot idea, Sam."

"I'm not Sam!" Dean screamed. He kicked Sam's chair over. "I'm Dean! I'm Dean!"

Elizabeth showed up, stepping over Sam's body to stand near Dean. She put a hand to Dean's chest. Dean looked down to see his shirt was bloody.

He took it off and found a huge cut, identical to Sam's, from his gut to his collarbone. Dean fingered the pieces of his entrails as they looped out of his body. "I'm Dean," he whispered to himself. "I'm Dean."

Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Are you really sure about that?"

IX.

Dean woke up with a start, his hands wrapped around his stomach. All his guts remained firmly inside. He wasn't hurt. He was safe.

In a way.

He was still in the car, but the car wasn't moving, felt like it had just been parked. That was probably what had woken Dean up, the sudden lack of motion, that subconscious feeling of stop. Dean tried to maneuver his body upwards, get his bearings, figure out what was going on. Sam was looking at him from the front seat.

"We're here," he said quietly.

TBC

A/N: Quotes from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. And by the way, two more chapters to go!