Dean whirled around at the sound of Sam's laughter as his brother came through the motel room door. About fucking time!

"Where the hell've you been?" The elder Winchester faintly roared a mixture of worry and anger. Because disappearing while Bobby was still fucked up and angels were on their asses and Lucifer was doing the Lambada down Main Street? Seriously not cool.

The laughter died, and Sam stared at him, stunned.

"I—"

"I've been calling you for three hours, man!" Dean shook the cell phone in his hand for emphasis. A hundred things could've happened. A thousand!, starting with demon kidnappings And ending with Happy Fun Times Angel Camp for the Damned.

Sam's eyes darted from side to side, which was so the beginning of a lie. "I was . . . kind of out of cell range," Sam said carefully.

Dean's glare narrowed at the suspiciously vague answer. Out of cell range? They had Verizon. He stalked forward, all big brother omniscience and laser eyes of doom. Sam looked guilty—shifty eyes and hunched shoulders. Not that he didn't have a lot to be guilty for, but this was extra guilty with double pickle. "Booze?"

"Dean . . ."

"Hookers?"

"Dean!"

And those were the happy alternatives. "Well then what, Sam! You needed a frickin Happy Meal?"

"Out! Okay? We were just . . . out." Sam shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at something in his hands.

Dean glanced, too, and made snorting laugh sound that was seriously threatening the Very Important Business vibe he had going. With concerted effort he squinted, put on his mad face, and tried to stay on topic.

"We?" Dean arched an eyebrow, imperious, briefly giving the open door beyond Sam's shoulder a look.

"Yeah, me and—" Sam hooked a thumb towards the door and turned. He stopped dead, snapped his jaw shut, and did a double-take between Dean and the door.

"You and?" Dean's eyebrows hitched higher as he watched his brother stare at the unoccupied space of the doorway and frown. Please, do not say something crazy, he thought.

"Gabriel," Sam said the name slowly, in confusion, like admitting he'd failed a test he was sure he passed.

"Right." Perfect. "Gabriel." Why not? "I thought angels couldn't find us anymore with our fancy new bone-tats."

Sam lifted his broad shoulders in a sheepish shrug that made Dean's gut clench a little. "I . . . might've told him where to look."

Oh for . . . "Jesus, Sam!" Dean gave the ceiling a brief look, shaking his head.

"What!"

"Oh, I dunno, Sammy. It occurs to me that as an archangel of the Lord, he might not be okay with you starting the Apocalypse." Dean turned in a tight circle, raking a hand through his hair. Leave the kid alone for two frickin seconds . . .

A bitchy look crossed Sam's face as he made to reply. Tried twice, in fact, but only managed to look hurt and offended without actually defending himself. Eventually, he shrugged helplessly and muttered, "He actually didn't seem that upset about it."

Oh, well, that makes it all better then, Dean said with an eloquent series of facial expressions and a small wave of his hand. But as much as he hated to admit it, that was actually interesting and potentially great news. Dean fixed a glare on his brother anyway, for good measure. "Point is," he groused, "we're supposed to be hiding from angels."

"You don't hide from yours," Sam shot back.

"That's . . ." Dean pressed his lips together. "Different." And Sam knew it. Cas was not like the other angels. And then there was the sex. Relationship. Whatever. Point being, Sam knew, so he was just trying to be a dick.

Dean glanced at the thing Sam was still holding. Well, two could play that. A smirk tickled the edges of his mouth. "So you and the big bad angel were out, what, hunting guava?"

Sam looked down, eyes wide in surprise, and then back up. "How did—"

"I know what a guava is!" Dean barked quickly, 'cause he wasn't actually as stupid as Stanford-Sam seemed to think he was.

His brother hunched, cowed. "Sorry," he said, and gave the perfectly sliced fruit an unsure look. Sam moved to offer the half that was left, and then reconsidered at the heat of Dean's glare.

"Whatever." Dean turned with a shake of his head. "While you were out having an"—he shot a critical look at the sweatshirt tied around Sam's waist—"excellent adventure, we've been having a Ragnorok kind of thing." He made a circular Wax-On motion, indicating the entirety of planet Earth and millions of lives in Great Mortal Peril and all.

"Dean, I—"

"Don't." Because Dean could see the tidal wave just waiting. And if he had to spend the rest of his life cleaning up Sammy's tears . . . well some things just weighed too damned much. It wasn't that he didn't care, Christ, he could never not care, but that caring had worn him threadbare. You could patch that up all you wanted, but underneath, the essential fabric was still just a fragile film with no future but falling apart. He'd already proven once that he wasn't strong enough and he didn't really need an encore.

Dean made a grab for the TV remote on the bed. The sound of something squishy and fruitish hitting the floor came from the trash can, and he felt Sam's looming presence at his side. Dean clicked on the tube. It was already on CNN. Images of police lines, helicopters, and medical units flashed across the screen. Quarantine blinked at the top of it in big, bold letters.

"What's—" Sam started to say.

"Hanover, Pennsylvania. At least it was. Whole town came down with some kinda illness." Dean looked at his brother. Sam's eyes were glued to the screen, soaking up as much as he could from the info bites.

"How many people?"

Dean didn't have to look at the screen. It was all he'd been hearing and reading about for hours. He'd first heard the nurses chattering to each other, and then turned on the TV in Bobby's room to see for himself. They still hadn't said a word to each other, but the look in Bobby's eyes had said it all. And given how much seeing the old man like that made Dean's heart ache, made him want to shake him hard and sputter like a girl and hug him way longer than was culturally appropriate, he was frankly glad to have a reason to leave.

"Fifteen thousand or so," Dean replied. "Rounded up to twenty, just to be safe."

Slowly, Sam turned to look at him, his expression gone blank. "What?" he said in a horrified little whisper.

Dean nodded, turned off the TV, and tossed the remote back on the bed. "Twenty-thousand people died in one day, and nobody's got a clue why."

"You think it's demons?"

"Well it ain't chicken pox." Dean moved to the desk, closed the laptop and started to pack up. He felt Sam watching him and unhelpfully not starting to pack up. With a huff, Dean tossed a shirt into his duffle and looked at him. "What." Sam had a look on his face like he'd just noticed the room was missing a wall or something.

"Where's Castiel?" Sam glanced around and then at Dean's bed.

"Gone ahead to check things out. Why?"

Sam shrugged in a terribly unconvincing way, and Dean glared a little harder. "Is there something about this that does not scream end of the world scenario to you?"

His brother studied his feet and collected his words. "No, it's just. I mean, it's an epidemic, Dean. And you wanna run right into the middle of it?"

Dean shoved some more clothes into his bag, annoyance burning its way up his back. Exactly when did Sam become an expert on Things That Are a Good Idea? Cause Dean was fairly sure he hadn't exactly cornered that market, lately. "Pretty much," he bit out.

Sam sighed loudly in his drama queen way. "Well, dontcha think that's a little stupid?"

With more force than necessary, Dean jerked the zipper on his duffle shut and then looked his brother square in the face. "That's what we do, Sam. Welcome to the past our entire lives."

"With ghosts, and werewolves, and demons, Dean." Sam's dark eyes pleaded. "Things we can defend against! Shoot. Kill. Who's to say we're not gonna get sick as soon as we show up?"

More annoying than Sam disappearing without one damn word was him showing back up and having accurate opinions. And fuck all if he wasn't right, but twenty-thousand people. "I don't know, Sam! What do you wanna do, huh?" Dean threw up his hands. "Ignore it? Hope it gets better?"

Sam looked away, and Dean rounded the bed to get up in his face because this? This was theirs. A heaping pile of bodies, all with their names on them. "What about the next town, huh? And the next one? These people have no idea what they're dealing with!"

That brought Sam's attention back, and he glared down, meeting Dean's eyes. "Neither do we."

Whatever. Dean turned aside and grabbed his bag. They'd been making it up for awhile now, anyway. Briefly, he let himself acknowledge that Sam had a point and they weren't doctors and had no idea how to stop of a virus of any kind. But only briefly. 'Cause where know-how failed, he had bravado, and if he didn't have that thenthey were all screwed.

Dean shoved his way past Sam and made for the door. "Cas is waiting, you coming or not?" He called over his shoulder and didn't stop to look back. He just threw his things into the car and waited for the sound of the passenger door opening.

They sat next to each other for a few moments in silence.

Sam played with his hands. Dean gripped the steering wheel like he was throttling a snake.

Finally, "What else did the news say?" Sam sounded robotic and resigned, but frankly that was good enough.

XXX

By Winchester standards, Hanover was actually quite close: a little over two and a half hours at the speed limit. Dean estimated two—he wasn't growing hair in weird places yet, and his baby liked it full throttle. They were on route 95, sailing toward Baltimore, then it'd be up interstate 83 into Pennsylvania. The scenery was supposed to be beautiful, not that the brothers could see it anyway, given as they'd left the motel somewhere around 2am. Gabriel's sense of time must've been as quixotic as his impression of space. Sam didn't actually know how long they'd been gone. Or when they'd shown up. If they'd left at midnight and returned at 2, but had been in the forest for 4 hours, did that make him 2 hours older? Or 4? Because from his perspect—

Ugh! Sam felt physics lessons and advanced mathematics twisting in his head. Angel relativity. And it was all just stupid distraction anyway to keep himself from the real questions.

Like, what was with the disappearing? Gabriel had been right behind him heading back into the room, speaking in that amused, easy way of his, like he was continually surprised that anyone would want to hear him talk. His stories were the flesh and blood of myth. Real histories that were painted in vivid colors by his words. Sam could see the cities, taste the air. Without thinking, Gabriel's voice would slip into Latin, Ancient Greek, and minute dialects Sam needed him to translate. "How many languages do you speak?" he had asked. "All of them," Gabriel had replied, and they nearly collided when Sam suddenly halted to face him. "How's that even possible?" Gabriel's look had turned fond, like he enjoyed the challenge. "God gave you tongues with which to speak," he'd said softly and drawn in intimately close, so his breath touched Sam's face. "We taught you how to use them." Sam had thought he would be kissed, but Gabriel simply smiled and moved on. He told him how Helen of Troy lived and breathed, but wasn't all that beautiful. She was a fulcrum for political gain, yes, but neither a love struck child nor a mortal goddess. Menelaus? Paris? She'd hated them both, he'd said.

Sam had asked about Achilles, too. And Gabriel fell silent. Sam had turned, halfway through a bite of fruit, to look at him, sucked up the bit of juice running from the corner of his mouth as he studied the angel's expression. Gabriel returned a steady, expectant gaze, teasing with his non-answer. Achilles, the greatest of warriors, a one man army, a soldier protected from all harm by the gods. Sam's eyes had widened. It was—there was no— Gabriel had full on smiled, then, and started to laugh like a victor. A musical sound of triumph and humor. He'd let Sam stammer for a minute before describing the ancient soldier in decidedly human terms.

Sam could feel the flush of embarrassment even now. He'd been had. In good fun, but still. Embarrassing to be the butt of an angel's alien humor.

Then without so much as a good-bye, he was gone. Sam wondered if it was an act of discretion or something else.

His thoughts turned toward the specifics of what he kept terming as "the encounter," which wasn't really fair in the way it abstracted everything. He kept thinking about that one moment, where Gabriel had put his hand on his ass and started to touch him in what Sam, despite himself, could only term "a gay way." It sounded crude, even to his own ears, and caveman-ish. But it was how he felt, and he hadn't faked the fear and the pounding heart. And it wasn't like he was afraid Gabriel'd hurt him 'cause he'd been nothing but gentle. But it would hurt, he was pretty sure. Even worse, he might like it. And then what? Then he'd be gay?

He didn't feel gay. You had to like guys to be gay. He liked girls; loved Jess.

Sam worried one knuckle between his teeth.

Maybe he was gay for, he thought. Christ. "Gay for Gabriel" sounded like a bumper sticker. But that didn't mean it wasn't true, or that it couldn't be true. You could like a man without liking men as a category. He'd read things like that, seen it on TV. It happened. Supposedly.

Maybe that was him. Maybe that was his category. After all, he hadn't planned Gabriel. He was just there and so . . . everything. This blazing light, this fantastic power, this knowledge and wisdom and beauty and terror. This force of nature that wanted to hold him close.

Sam's thoughts flipped back to Gabriel's hand gripping, warm and sure, and then his finger sliding down. Sam's body tensed, rejecting the idea just like it had before. He didn't want that. Clearly. But if not that, then what? Once is a mistake, but twice?

Try as he might, it was a question he couldn't seem to find a way to answer, after awhile, he gave up trying and let himself relax into happier thoughts that pulled a smile to his lips. There were plenty of those. Sam's attention slowly drifted back toward the present. Over the cacophony of his own thoughts, he could hear Dean's voice droning and angled himself away from the sound as though his memories were written plainly across his face for his brother to read. Delicate memories, singularly gossamer experiences that might turn to dust in the right light.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned back, stretching out his tall form as far as the Impala would let him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother pull the phone away from his ear and drop it on the seat with what was definitely disappointment.

"What'd Bobby say?" Sam asked cautiously.

Dean pursed his lips for a second. "Nothing." The word fell like a heavy wet sheet, sucking out all the air.

Sam scowled in grim discomfort. Nothing, in this case, meant nothing. Silence. He'd have preferred a good scolding for runnin' off on some fool errand bent on getting themselves killed. By Dean's expression, they both would have. Sam settled back down and tried to think of something to say. Something encouraging, maybe. Something not about twenty-thousand dead in under twenty-four hours. Respiratory distress. Coughing up blood. Open sores. Complete organ failure.

"So, um, how's Castiel?" Sam ventured.

"Boyfriend Resurrected? Oh, he's fantastic."

Well shoot me for asking. Sam repressed a sigh and concentrated on staring at the road ahead of them. Dean could take his snark and shove it. But then he heard his brother draw a deep breath and let out a weary sigh of his own.

"I dunno." The elder Winchester's voice came out gravelly and low.

Sam turned to watch his brother's face in the reflected glow of the headlights.

"He doesn't stay around long. Couple of minutes here and there," Dean said in hushed tones. "It's desperate and kinda freakin' me out. I feel like . . . I dunno, like he's not telling me something, but I dunno what it is." He shook his head lightly in confusion and defeat.

It was an expression Dean had been wearing a lot lately. Other than outright anger, it was probably his most common one. A twinge of guilt struck Sam's chest, and he glanced down at the seat between them.

"He loves you, though," Sam said gently.

"I know."

He looked up at Dean. "Like, a lot."

Dean frowned at that and his mouth took on a pained grimace. "Too much."

"No such thing." Sam's voice came out more fierce than he'd intended, and Dean turned to face him. To study him. Sam stared back, but something in the thoughtful scrutiny clawed at the empty aching in his chest. A rush of guilt made him look away, and he sat with the uneasy feeling that he'd said the wrong thing.

Eventually, Sam heard the sound of Dean's hands changing position on the steering wheel and knew his attention was back on the road. Sam swallowed and didn't look over. Somehow he'd trespassed, straining their fragile truce. If Dean wasn't such a fucking mystery all the time, maybe he could've figured out how, but Dean was Dean, and Sam slumped sullenly in his seat. Between them unfurled the silence of a haunted jail, where suffering echoes soundless on the stone.

XXX

They were a little over forty-five minutes away, roaring down some hick country road flatteringly deemed route 216. Towns that were no more than a convenience store and a post office kept whipping by. The headlights caught the decapitated stalks of corn in the fields on either side, giving the land a vaguely blasted look. That was, right up until the hairpin turn onto Blooming Grove, which plunged them straight into a forest.

"You sure this is right?" Dean sat up a little straighter and tried not to sound spooked.

Sam held a flashlight between his teeth, scanning both the printed directions and the highway map. Yes, he was sure it was right. Yes, he'd been able to read maps before books, so they weren't lost, thanks. And yes Blooming Grove would take them straight through—

"Ho! Sam!" Dean howled suddenly in disgust and reached for the window crank. "Jesus . . . warn me you frickin' fart bomb!"

Startled, Sam looked over, inhaled to speak, and promptly dropped the flashlight as the stench hit him. Holy . . . "Wasn't me!" he coughed out, diving to roll his window down as well. Him or anyone else, cause God damn, there was no way that came out of a human.

"Aww!" Dean made another loud protest as the air from outside rushed in. He slammed on the brakes, and the car lurched to a halt with prejudice. "Roll 'em up! Roll 'em up!"

Nauseating decay filled the air, and Sam felt his stomach churn in hearty protest. He clamped a hand over his mouth and turned to his brother. Dean was pinching his nose closed between two fingers like a four-year-old about to jump in the deep end of a pool.

"Wud da hell is goin on out dere?"

Sam smirked and laughed a little at his idiot brother. Dean could take on poltergeist and zombies no problem, but stuff up his nose and his extra miserable kid-sized self came out to whine. Sam sobered and peered out into the dark. "I dunno." His words were muffled by his hand "It smells like rotting fish though, doesn't it?"

Dean gave the road ahead a scathing, insulted look. "I hate fish."

Sam narrowed his eyes, because one of the few things his brother did besides hunt things was fish. Dean looked over and caught his expression.

"What?"

Sam considered, weighed his chances, and decided against it. "Nothing." He shuffled the papers in his lap and picked up the flashlight. If he remembered right, "Here. This road goes straight through Codorus State Park."

"So?"

"So . . . Lake Marburg is the major attraction there."

"Fishery," Dean said, sounding glum. His shoulders slumped.

"Pretty sure, yeah."

With a longsuffering look like Sam had put the damn lake there himself, Dean let up on the brakes and started them rolling again, keeping one hand firmly in place over his nose. "Dis is gonna be as bad as I t'ink id is, isn't it."

In Sam's estimation, it was actually a little worse.

By the time they rolled onto the road crossing Lake Marburg, the rot was a cloying taste in the air. Every breath ended in a gag, and Sam's eyes watered from the effort not to hurl all over the inside of the car. He waved for Dean to slow down, and they came to a stop somewhere around the middle of the lake. The lights from the highway barely graced the surface of the water.

Groaning as he opened the door, Sam stepped out onto the empty road. The stench of dead fish pervaded everything, and he flinched from it like a physical blow. His body tried to curl in on itself, seeking protection. Sam fought the sickness down and leaned over the railing to get a good look at the lake. The dark waters took unnatural form, like diseased skin. Bubbles and boils bobbed on the surface, reflecting orange sodium lights and the cold light of a waning moon through thin fog. The underbellies of dead fish. A vast lake of them, turned putrid.

Sam felt Dean come up beside him, brushing against his arm as he, too, leaned over the railing to look down.

After a long, stunned silence, "Dat is never good."

Sam gave the lake a worried look. "Or a coincidence." He glanced at his brother, but Dean was already turning away and heading back for the car. Sam hurried to follow, taking long, quick strides. He slid into the passenger's seat and didn't bother to buckle in, as that would require letting go of his nose. And frankly, between the two, he'd take the chance of a car crash.

They left as quickly as the old girl could carry them. Sam kept his mouth shut when the needle passed 100. And he sighed long and loud when they were finally able to open the windows to allow in some fresh air, which Jesus had never smelled or tasted or felt so good.

XXX

Hotel Stonegate in Blooming Grove was actually kind of on the classy side of impermanent living. Which, to be honest, made Sam feel a little like a dick for having rented one of their rooms, given that he smelled like last week's trash. He stood awkwardly in the lobby while the woman behind the desk scrunched up her face and glared at him. Once, by accident, he looked her in the eye only to see palpable disgust. Not that he could blame her. He smelled like the inside of a hot barrel of fish heads. She slid the key onto the counter and jerked her hand back, just in case he was thinking of making contact. He offered a pinched, pathetic grin before snatching the key and hurrying away.

He looked down at the room number and up at the directory on the way out.

She'd given them the room farthest from the office.

While Dean showered (because he was the oldest and therefore commanded a divine right to the hot water), Sam unpacked their black suits, hung them from the back of the door, and broke out the Febreze. If they'd had time, he'd have gone for dry cleaning but hopefully a whole bottle of Linen & Sky would suffice. Their clothes had been inside the bag. And in plastic.

He leaned in to sniff the jacket lapel, and shuddered.

Sometimes, life sucked.

An hour later, the bottle was empty, and everything they were going to need was laid out to air dry. Well, everything but some way to keep from getting dead, but apparently that was so far off Dean's radar that bringing it up was a measure of cowardice instead of prudence. Sam had been tumbling it around while spritzing. He was right. He knew he was right, and he was pretty sure his brother wasn't so stupid that he couldn't see it either, which meant it wasn't about being right, but having rights. Biblical saviors? Big brothers? They have certain rights. Everyone else, not so much. And the more Sam thought about it, the tighter his tension and patience wound. Dean, by the way, was still in the shower.

Sam gave the bathroom door an annoyed look. Steam leaked out from underneath it. Enough steam that he could've pressed the damned suits while he was at it. He huffed, waited. Stripped off his fishmonger clothes, waited. Eventually paced over and pounded his fist once against the door.

"Dude, seriously? It's been over an hour. You're not getting any cleaner!" He leaned against the door.

No reply.

"Dean?" He hit the door twice more, alarm sharpening in his gut. "Dean!"

"What!" The door swung in suddenly, and Sam almost tumbled in after it. His brother stood wrapped in a towel at the waist, his face half-covered in shaving foam.

Sam glanced around at what was quite obviously not a dangerous or life-threatening situation. He worked up a look that crossed concern with longsuffering. "Would it kill you to answer?"

Dean's hazel-green eyes simply stared back. And then he looked back to the mirror over the sink, picked up his razor, and made to continue where he'd left off. Sam didn't move. Dean slanted a look at him. "Do you mind?" He gestured.

Yes. Jerk. Sam's face tightened. "Jus' hurry up, would ya?"

Which clearly in Dean-speak meant, "Take all the damn time in the world." He actually whistled as he finished up. Not cheerily, but in a toneless time-wasting, "God I am a pain in the ass" kind of way.

By some miracle, there was still hot water by the time Sam got to wash the fish-stench off of his skin and out of his hair. Even more, Hotel Stonegate had gone the extra mile and installed a massaging showerhead. If he slouched, he could let the water beat against his shoulders and pound out the tension. The rhythm against his back lulled him into a light trance, only broken when the water did indeed finally run cold.

Sam glanced at himself in the mirror and made a face. The scruffy look really wasn't going to fly. It'd only been about a million years since he'd had a chance to sleep, but he carried on making himself presentable, yawning and blinking and trying not to cut off anything he'd regret as he shaved. By the time he was done, Dean had already sacked out. One could only assume the misshapen lump under the comforter was him, anyway. The blankets were pulled clear up to the headboard. A decidedly empty expanse filled the left side of the mattress, and Sam felt a twinge of sympathy. Also, the urge to tell Dean how totally sweet that was. Really, just, adorable.

Sibling radar must've caught Sam's grin, because the lump on the bed flopped around a little. He looked away.

The plan for tomorrow was one of the stupidly simple ones. Standard hunter protocol, really. Hi, we're The Feds, we'd like to do whatever we want now, please. Why, yes sir, Mr. Men in Black. Please, proceed, and thanks so much for taking all the blame on this one!

Sam glanced at the faked IDs on the table, the neatly re-hung suits that had finished drying. Just routine, he tried to tell himself. But Dean's descriptions of what'd happened in Hanover kept waving little danger flags all over the place—the kind that even his stunted sense of self-preservation thought deserved a second thought.

He sighed. If one of them got sick . . .

Sam sank onto the remarkably comfortable bed and gave it a surprised little look. He wriggled and nestled in to the unaccustomed luxury. Decent mattresses must be a gift from Heaven, he thought with a sigh. No wonder Dean'd fallen asleep already. He absently thought about asking Gabriel if angels slept on clouds and grinned vaguely at the imagined response. But worries far more pressing flooded into his mind.

Anti-virals. Antibiotics. They should've gotten both. Or something.

He didn't like it. Sam drew a deep breath and sighed heavily again, mostly because Dean was right about the Biblical badness. Every doctor in the country could be on this one and still not come up with anything. They had to try to set it right. It was his fault after all. All those people, nameless someones he now owed an unpayable debt to. Maybe dying in the process wouldn't be an unfitting punishment. The despairing ache in his chest flared open. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get to save a few of those someones on the way out.

Sam rubbed a hand on his breastbone, as though it could ease the aching, as though anything could, and pushed himself up the bed. He sprawled across the middle, cut the light, and fell asleep wondering if he would dream.

XXX

Every road into Hanover was blockaded. Even the little ones. Not unexpected given the unprecedented catastrophe, but not that handy either. The route the Winchesters had chosen was major enough to be believable, but not so major that they might run into the actual FBI at a checkpoint. Once agents started calling bosses and checking credentials, it'd be game over. But so long as it was just them and a couple Paul Blarts, it was all down to the sales pitch. Sam could see Dean calculating his as they came to a stop a respectable distance from the road barrier. Sam straightened his tie one last time, slipping on a lie as easily as a smile, and the two of them got out in practiced unison.

Ambulances, lights twirling, filled a convenience store parking lot not far beyond the barricade. Police cars from across the state lined the street, and most of their associated officers stood in a row, being pressed in by a loud crowd. A sergeant saw their approach and separated himself from the rest. He looked maybe ten years their senior, and Sam assessed him as smarter than average, mostly from the way he inspected their advance and didn't fall all over himself to pawn responsibility off on someone else. The officer lifted his chin in acknowledgment, and Sam slipped off his sunglasses for a little bit of drama. He let his brother move slightly ahead.

"Officer," Dean said, giving the man a bit of a smile. His lack of warmth, regardless of cause, was appropriate to their grim purpose, and he and Sam pulled out their badges with weary efficiency. "I'm Agent Ehart, this is Agent Greer."

The man glanced at the badges and then at their faces. He frowned a little. "FBI? Thought you guys were already here." He motioned over his shoulder.

Shit.

Dean's smile dropped suddenly, and he cursed under his breath. He started to turn away, like a dozen reactions warred inside and he wasn't sure which to pick, but then he whipped back, rounding on Sam. His expression was one of controlled fury, and Sam reacted in automatic withdrawal at the sight of it. "I told you!" Dean shoved an accusatory finger in Sam's direction, angry. "They're gonna have to call for authorization, now, and whole office is gonna know!" And then he spun away, brushing a hand over his hair. Agitation bled off him, as he turned, turned, and he paused.

Sam watched, and let his face fall into a grimace of guilt. Whatever Dean was doing, he was going to have to play along.

Dean's posture shifted suddenly, sank under an impossible weight. He lifted his eyes toward his brother and looked expertly like a man who had lost everything. Sam found it difficult to breathe. He stared back at the desolation, unable to form a thought beyond this is what he always keeps hidden.

Dean turned toward the officer, not quite believing his own rotten luck, not hiding the strain that was more honest than he'd ever admit. "I can't get written up for this, man," he said carefully, a note of raw desperation in his voice. "I just . . ." He moved away, his emotion spinning him in circles. "She'll kill me. God, she's gonna kill me," he muttered, loud enough to be heard. He closed in on himself, shaking his head because words were not enough.

The officer's gaze softened in sympathy, and Sam took a step closer, trying to play the cards he'd been dealt. He caught the man's eyes and motioned to a spot a few feet away. They left Dean to his apparent despair, chewing the insides of his lips and staring at the pavement.

"Look, Officer"—Sam checked his badge—"Wyckdale. I know this isn't your problem, and you have no reason to help us out here, but this is all my fault." Sam's voice was hushed, and his guilt and pain were fresh enough that there was no need to act. "My girlfriend, she . . ." He looked away, pressed his lips together, and then looked Officer Wyckdale in the eye, like he thought the guy might just understand. "It's the job. She hates the job. She hates that I'm away. Says it's her or the bureau, but this is my life, you know? I can't just . . . stop!" Passion had made him louder, and Sam took a moment to press himself back into a whisper. "The other night she called, and we were up late and it was—bad." He breathed deep to steady himself, embarrassed to admit the truth to stranger but being the bigger man, because Dean's career was supposedly on the line here. "I didn't get much sleep. And then we got the call to come here. And I was driving. And I guess I dozed off, cause the next thing I know we're in a ditch with a broken axle."

Wyckdale's eyes flicked from Sam's face to somewhere over his shoulder. To the car. Sometimes it really sucked having that car.

Sam pressed on, because this was the only story he had. He glanced at the car briefly. "I know, trust me. Took every card and buck we had to get the guy at the garage to sell us that, just so we could get here." He pressed his eyes shut and sighed. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and sagged. He opened his eyes to see Wyckdale frowning. "Point is . . ." Another breath. "Point is Phil doesn't deserve to get in trouble because of my problems. He's a good partner, and it's not fair. And his wife gave up a lot so he could take this job. So if you could just please let us through. We'll take a quick look and be on our way. With any luck, no one at the meeting tomorrow will even notice. We'll be on the same page, and maybe we can help you guys get this thing sorted out." He gave the man his best, earnest, pleading puppy look.

The officer's frown evened out, and he glanced once at Dean, who was doing his best impression of a man not trying to overhear their conversation. Then he looked back at Sam, smirked in resignation, and gestured over his shoulder. "Hazmat suits are in the CDC truck," He said, capitulating but trying to maintain appropriate disapproval. Wyckdale's eyes wrinkled at the corners when he looked again at Dean.

Sam let out a held breath. Thank you! Cool relief swept through his body with such a dizzying rush that he almost forgot to keep listening.

"Take the cart up to Broadway," Wyckdale went on, focusing back on Sam. "Follow the signs at East Chestnut for Hanover Hospital."

Sam held out his hand, and the officer took it, exchanging a warm, firm shake. "Thank you," he said, meaning it, and Wyckdale nodded.

Sam went to leave, to grab Dean, but Wyckdale's voice called out behind him.

"Agent!"

Shit. Sam spun, heart suddenly pounding.

"Send her flowers. Expensive ones. And tell her you're sorry. They're the magic words." The man half-grinned, and Sam couldn't help but return it.

"Thanks," he said nodding. "I will."

Then he clapped Dean on the arm, squeezed between the barricades, and aimed for the hazmat trucks. Beside him, Dean blew out a gust of air and chuckled, dropping the worried husband act like just another Halloween mask. But that one look had been real. Sam was sure of it, even if he didn't know quite what it meant.

"Flowers?" Dean said, in his "Sammy, You Are So Gay" voice.

Sam slanted a look over. "What? My girlfriend hates my job," he said with a bit of defensive pride. 'Cause that had all been off the cuff, thank you very much.

"Yeah."

"Hey, at least I don't have poor performance." He could just feel Dean's expression fall into a scowl.

"You did not just say that to me."

Sam shrugged and hurried along. "You brought it up." And now they both knew where this was going.

"Sam—" Dean tried to cut him off. Failed.

"Or didn't."

Smirking, he side-stepped Dean's attempt to punch his arm and then gave the woman at the hazmat truck his best, pleased smile as they approached.