Chapter 6

They find Tracy Davis walking down the street dressed as a cheerleader. "She looks pretty good," Dean says more because that's what Sam expects him to say something like that when a female who looks like Tracy walks down the street in a skimpy cheerleading outfit. What he actually thinks is that short skirt or no, witches are still skeevy—a charred bone from a newborn is just fucking gross.

"Two words, Dean: jail bait."

"Four words," he shoots back. "Six hundred years old." Sam chuckles, which is what Dean wanted. They're both trying as hard as they can to pretend everything is normal while knowing damn well it's not. If he needed a hint at how bad it is, Sam's furiously tapping fingers are clue number four. Sam has admitted to being addicted to demon's blood. Before, in Dead Dean the First's history, Sam had to drain a demon right in front of Bobby and Dean, get locked in Bobby's panic room, escape, and let Ruby trick him into killing Lilith, which opened Lucifer's cage, before he thought it was a problem. Even so, it wasn't until God rescued them from the convent that Sam had admitted it was an addiction.

Damn! His brother is stubborn.

Dean's going to take this early awareness as a good sign.

Tracy gets nearer and Sam stands up and blocks her way. He flashes his badge, "Ms. Davis; Tracy Davis?" he says and she stops. Dean stands up slightly behind her so she's blocked in. "I'm Agent Abbot with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Seger. We have a few questions about the death of Luke Wallace."

"Who?"

Sam's lips lift but it's not a smile. "The man you babysit for."

"Ohh," she says, trying for innocent and failing. "I always dealt with Mrs. Wallace. I didn't really know him." She smiles and she looks young and blonde and pretty in a wholesome, American way but they know she's also ancient and evil and dangerous.

"You knew him enough to put a hex bag in his kitchen to kill him," Sam states coldly.

"What?"

"We'd like you to come with us," Dean interjects smoothly. They need to get the witch off the street before they do anything, and bringing up the fact that they know she's a witch? Probably not the best way to do it.

It's too late though. Tracy is looking at them with suspicion. "I'd like to see your badges again," she says. Sam scowls, obviously ready to force the issue, but Dean bumps him to shut him up then he pulls out his 'badge' with calm confidence. He knows it'll stand up to even the most intense scrutiny. His brother may have the brains—when he chooses to use them—but Dean has the skills. Besides, she doesn't have the time or privacy to cast a revealing spell, or whatever she'd call that shit.

Tracy takes the IDs and examines them; she runs her fingers over them but they're plasticized with just hints of bumps in the seal… just like a real badge. The hunter sends up a silent prayer of gratitude to Victor Henrikson. The guy had deserved a lot better than to have had his wallet lifted on the same day Lilith killed him but demon wars were a bitch.

They're not enough to convince her, though.

Perhaps, Dean admits, six-hundred years probably provides enough experience to make an evil person cautious.

"I think," she says slowly, "that I'd like to have a lawyer present at any conversation we have. So, unless you have a warrant, we're done."

"Do you have a lawyer we can contact to arrange an interview?" Sam asks, back to being calm and professional. There's a slight tremor in his hands, a tenseness in his jaw, and Dean knows it isn't caused by being thwarted by Ancient Tracy.

"I don't have a lawyer but I'll get one," the cocky brat tone is back.

With a glance at his stressed-out brother, Dean hands over the business card he'd printed earlier. "Once you've picked one out, have him–"

"–or her," she interjects.

"Or her," Dean accepts "give us a call."

Tracy picks the card from his fingers and her eyes slit with calculation. "I'll have my lawyer call you," she says, but what she means is she'll have a hex bag in their motel room before midnight.

She flicks the card against her chin and gives them a triumphant smile. Dean knows that if the number was theirs she could track them with it, find out where they were staying and plant a hex bag in their room, or just throw a nasty spell their way. Dean hasn't made that mistake. The number is real but if she calls it she'll be led into the morass of the federal government's self-help electronic directories—impersonal and untraceable. So Dean just smiles back at her and pulls his brother out of the way. They watch as she saunters down the street.

"She killed him," Sam says and he's radiating fury.

"I know, dude." Dean tries to soothe his little brother. "I know. We'll get her."

"Yeah? How?" Sam spits at him. "She's gonna kill somebody and we could've stopped her."

"Well, maybe we could've done something if you hadn't told her we knew she was a witch," Dean points out coldly, already heading towards the Impala.

"Are you saying it's my fault?" And Sam's right there, in his face, angry and jittery with withdrawal and ready to fight fucking Gandhi he's so strung out. A memory explodes in his brain, of Sam throwing him into a mirror, kneeling above him, strangling him. He was so angry… Dean rubs a hand over his eyes, down his face, trying to massage the pain away, trying to find the control not to provoke Sam because, right now, with each of them feeling the way they do it wouldn't take much for Sam to bring him down, and maybe, this time he'd stay down. "I'm saying now we move on to plan B."

"We have a plan B?" Sam asks and his tone is bewildered.

"Yeah, Sam. We find out which one of her friends has parents away this week because that's the kid that's having the party." He pulls a list out of his duffel. "Start calling."

Sam gives him The Look, but he does grab the list and pull out his phone, and that's what matters. Sam has always sounded more trustworthy over the phone than Dean.

Luck's on their side for once. It doesn't take them long to discover where the big Halloween party is. They wait across the street until they see Tracy arrive then Dean phones in a noise complaint and they let the local cops break up the party before anybody dies. They walk past a shame-faced kid with tire treads painted on his face getting a dressing-down from an older cop. Turns out, the officer is the boy's uncle and he knows the kid wasn't allowed to have a party while his parents were away. Dean hears "when I tell your father" before he and Sam slip past them with a flash of their fake badges.

Small town trust, gotta love it.

There's a bucket of water with apples floating on top that causes more of Dead Dean's memories to push forward. He rubs his temple. It's like having pins and needles in his brain and it makes him a little nauseous every time it happens. A young officer, carrying a bin of confiscated booze out to his patrol car, bumps him and pulls Dean out of his daze. Sam's already searching the sitting area, lifting the cushions off the chairs. Dean goes over to the dance area. The hex bag wasn't here last time but things could be different.

They are.

"It's not here," Sam announces after an hour's fruitless searching.

"I can see that."

"She was here, though. We saw her," the younger Winchester continues as if Dean hadn't spoken. He's still jittery and his pupils are wide. Dean remembers what Sam was like in that other timeline, having hallucinations and seizures until they had to strap him to the bed in Bobby's panic room. But that was after a year of drinking Ruby's blood. This time it was only four months, so it shouldn't be that bad… should it?

Maybe, he thinks, after this they should head to Bobby's, just in case. They should probably do that anyway if they're going to find a spell or a ritual to banish Lilith.

"Dean," Sam shoves him to get his attention and Dean is forced to twist to keep his balance.

"Ow, fuck," he presses a hand to his still healing wound.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam mutters and Dean's sure he is sorry; he just doesn't know his strength right now. He waves a forgiving hand but Sam's already rambling on. "…if she didn't kill someone here, she'll do it someplace else, right? How're we going to figure out her next target, huh? We're out of options, Dean."

"You're right," Dean agrees and it startles the younger hunter into silence. "She could plant that thing in a mall and we won't know until they announce the death on the news."

"That's… yeah, what I meant. Shit." The last word is whispered as Sam presses the heels of his hand into his eyes, trying to gather himself together, calm himself down… Deny the fact that he's totally strung out.

"So we go to the teacher's place and do whatever we need to do." Before Dean's finished speaking Sam's heading to the door. His steps are jerky and over-controlled. Dean watches and wishes he knew how to make this easier on his brother but there's no place on the internet to Google 'recovery aids for people suffering from demon's blood addiction.' He's been keeping the guy supplied with water and Gatorade, nuts and jerky. Dean hopes it's helping but so far he ain't seeing it.

Now, he's tired and he's sore and his brother is vibrating with need. They have to get this done and quickly. With another deep breath he packs it all down and thinks about the job.

There's a crackle from a police radio coming from the senior deputy at the boy's house and the place is quiet enough that Dean doesn't have to strain to hear. There's been a suspicious death at the corner market.

"Shit," he mutters. Sam looks at him in silent question and Dean realizes that his brother was so wrapped up in his own body he hadn't heard the report. "Looks like sweet little Tracy stopped for snacks."

"What?" Sam asks, surprised. "Where?"

Dean nods his head at the young officer, "Wherever he's going." He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "Let's go find the hex bag then we'll go visit 'just Don' at home. He's got to have an altar we can fuck up, right?"

When they pull up at Don Harding's house the next morning, it doesn't need any decorating for Halloween. It's old, ill-kept, covered in vines, and rose bushes that look dead, rustling menacingly in the light autumn breeze. Sam wonders if it's the neighborhood's unofficial haunted house. The only thing missing for it to qualify is a broken window or two and Dean takes care of that within minutes by jimmying the latch of one in the living room. It's just as well it's a school day, because Dean wasn't subtle, didn't even try to stay out of sight.

Dean holds up the window and waves Sam in. Sam's surprised until he remembers Dean's stitches. Maybe his big brother is finally admitting he's not indestructible? Then he snorts: forget Lucifer and Michael, if Dean ever admitted anything like that, that would be the Apocalypse.

Dean pokes him and brings his focus back to the present. Shit, he can't afford to zone out like that. He reads concern in Dean's eyes. Are you alright? they ask. He hides his shaky hands and gives Dean a little head-dip that says Not great but good enough for this.

He kind of expects Dean to call him on it, but Dean doesn't, just nods and waves at the window again. Sam nods back and crawls through.

First thing he smells is stale air. The second is old blood. There's also a hint of goldthread that tells Sam they've come to the right place. He goes to the door to let his brother in. Dust motes float in the air, glowing in the early autumn sun.

"Basement?" Dean asks and Sam nods because that's where most people hide the stuff they don't want visitors to see. Dean has his gun out and he creeps down the stairs cautiously. Sam, laden with the duffel, is even more careful. They're sure that Don is at school. They're not so sure where Tracy is. The light goes on the same second Dean calls "Clear".

The basement is unfinished, bare cement for walls, sealed cement for the floor. Over on one side, prosaic and ordinary, are the washer and dryer. There's even a half-full basket of clothes awaiting attention. There's boxes in the corner labeled 'pictures' and 'early versions'. And, on the far side, beyond a half-finished wall, is the altar. It's an old-fashioned kitchen worktable, plain and sturdy wood, that's been covered with an embroidered cloth. The patterns in the fabric are arcane symbols that Sam has a hard time recognizing as anything other than wrong. Wrongwrongwrong; like the feeling he had the first time Ruby had offered him her blood.

He's overwhelmed with a full-body memory of the smell of her blood, the taste of it, and the zing it gave him as it tangled with his own. It was good, so good.

"Can we dismantle it safely?" Dean asks. A legitimate question as the witches are running a spell through the items on it.

Sam gives his head a shake because he really needs to be focused on the present. Focus, focus, focus, he chants.

He looks at the supplies more carefully. There's goldthread, coins and babies' bones on the shelves close to the unbleached linen squares used to hold the spell items, so he knows this is the right spell—like there was any doubt. There's also a horned goat's skull, a dried pumpkin, some candles and a couple standard-looking athames, blades gleaming in the low light. There's a twenty on it that Luke Wallace probably gave to Tracy the last time they interacted, just as the pop bottle would've been the cashier's. The money and the bottle could either be trophies, or focus-points.

Given that Dean's fake business card is there, Sam's going with option B.

Sam picks it up. "We need to look for a hex bag when we get back to the room," he says. Dean doesn't argue. Sam looks at the book, lying open on one side of the altar. Fucking Gaelic?

"What?" Dean says, picking up on Sam's emotions. He strides over to the table to look over Sam's shoulder. Sam ignores his nosiness with the ease of old practice.

"The spell's in Gaelic. It's been a while. Impigh againn Tiarna leat," he mutters as he runs his finger over the words and the English filters up: We beg you, lord.

As if that phrase was a key, the rest of the incantation is easier to understand. Unfortunately, what he reads isn't good. "Shit."

"What?" Dean repeats more impatiently.

"The spell's in place," Sam shares the bad news. "All that's left is the final sacrifice tonight at midnight."

"What if we burn the altar?" Dean suggests.

"I'd rather you didn't do that."

The voice comes from behind them. Dean already has his gun out as he turns to face the threat, but before he can get a shot off Don Harding flings out a hand. "Ghortaigh!"

Oh shit, Sam has time to think, then the spell hits them: pain in the stomach radiating out through his body, grabbing his ribs and stealing his breath. All his muscles lock, like his whole body is a giant charley horse. He can barely breathe, can hardly see, but he can feel his pulse thundering like acid in his veins. Even over the pounding agony, Sam can hear Harding approach, walking from the steps and across the cement floor to where he and Dean are writhing like caterpillars pinned to the ground.

He can hear the witch because the guy is talking in a smarmy, triumphant voice, "Well, this is unexpected. Tracy said some guys were on to her. FBI agents, she said, but you're not Feds. Who are you?" He's looking down at them, hand outspread, forcing his spell into them and making them hurt. Sam wants to kill him but instead it's all he can do to groan.

"No answer? Too bad. However, I'm sure we can put you to good use." He takes out a cell phone and flips it open. He calls Tracy, telling her to get over to his place.

"So what you going to do to us, Don?" Dean gasps out the question.

"Well," he muses. "As great an honor as being the final sacrifice is, it's one both Tracy and I would be willing to forgo. Since the spell doesn't specifically call for us, and since you boys were kind enough to stop by, I think we'll use one of you instead."

Sam looks at him in helpless fury. "You son of a bitch," he mutters.

"Actually, my mother was a good Catholic woman, at least in public. More money in being Roman Catholic, easier too; but you couldn't see the Catholic god, couldn't hear him, couldn't touch him. Not like our gods, my gods.

"Not a god," Sam gasps in argument. "A demon. From Hell."

Don snorts, "He wasn't from Hell. He was sent there, trapped there by the adherents of the Roman church. After all, what better way to make your mark in the new religion than to banish the gods of the old? Pátraic of Dalriada was one of those. He hated our beliefs because they hadn't done anything for him except make him a slave. But the new church, the Roman church, promised to change all that for him."

"Pátraic," Sam says in disbelief, "Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland?"

"Saint!" Don's voice is curdled with derisive anger. "It wasn't snakes that bitter old zealot banished from Éire. He turned the tribes against the old ways, the old gods, made them believe they were evil. But they weren't. They were just larger reflections of ourselves."

"Whatever Sam Hain used to be, he isn't anymore," Dean says. "You know that, right? Hell will have changed him." There's no particular emphasis in his words, like they're not important, just a way of passing the time. Sam stares at his brother, wondering how he can be so calm.

"It doesn't matter. He's still our god and he'll come back to us, return to what he was."

"You really believe that?" Dean asks in surprise. "Even though he's been in Hell for over a thousand years?"

Don looks down at him, sneering. "Of course. It's not faith if you don't believe during the hard times as well."

And Dean smiles, soft and sad. "So I've heard," he says, and Sam knows his brother is thinking of Layla Rourke, dead for two years of a brain tumor he could've let her be cured of if it hadn't meant somebody else dying in her place. Dean used to swing by her grave whenever they were in the area, leaving flowers and protections. Those visits always left him introspective and quiet.

There isn't much chatting after that. Don keeps his hand out, keeps the spell running through them, forcing them to the floor. Sam's relieved to see strain and sweat lines form on the witch's face. The spell must be taking something out of him, which means, if they're lucky, he'll slip before Tracy gets here and then either he or Dean can take him out. He looks at his brother to try and communicate with him silently but he doesn't catch Dean's eyes. Instead, he sees Dean's shirt dark with blood. The stain is big and glistening and the hand Dean has covering it is red. It's obvious the wound has opened up again and his brother is bleeding, badly.

His gaze snaps up to Dean's face—pale, too pale—and Dean's looking back at him. Sam stares at him in horror… and Dean winks. What the… He frowns the question at his brother but Dean's shut his eyes. Over the drone of the furnace and the water heater, and the creaking of the old house, Sam can hear Metallica being hummed off-key. Either his brother is okay with dying or he has a plan. Although he suspects the former, he decides to be like Don and have faith it's the latter.

Tracy shows up, calling Don's name as she clomps down the stairs. "You still have them?" she asks.

"No, I let them get away." He rolls his eyes. "Of course I still have them."

"No need to be an ass," she snaps back, walking fully into the basement. She looks so much like a normal teenage girl—jeans, pretty shirt with a delicate pattern—that Sam feels like he's hallucinating. Or it could just be a side effect of prolonged pain. This is worse, way worse, than when he broke his wrist and it wouldn't stop throbbing.

"Well, well, well. Agent Seger and Agent Abbott," she smiles at them. "I guess I don't have to worry about planting that hex bag now."

"Guess not," Dean smiles back. Then his face hardens. "Cas," he says loudly "any time."

The air thickens and fills with the sound of wings beating and Castiel is suddenly there with his messy hair and his battered trench coat. He has a long silver knife that gleams even in the basement's dim light. He stabs Tracy through the back and she lights up, faintly, nothing like what demons do—like Ruby had—but enough for Sam to know that the knife is supernatural and the witch's soul is dead.

She looks surprised as she dies.

"Tracy!" Don calls and he finally raises his hand and points it somewhere else. Sam gasps as he feels the spell lift and the end of pain is intoxicating at first. Then he just wants to hurl.

"Ghortaigh!" Don throws the spell at Castiel. The angel shrugs it off or doesn't even feel it. Don looks frightened for the first time. "What are you?"

Castiel steps closer to the witch. "I am an angel of the Lord," he says as he shoves his knife deep into Don Harding's chest. "I'm sorry, but Sam Hain cannot rise." The witch's soul flashes as he dies.

"Cas?" Sam manages to say. He feels like he's breathing around broken glass. "How did you…" How did you know we were in trouble, he means. How did you know where we were? He can't manage to say all that but it doesn't matter; the angel hears him anyway.

"Your brother ordered me to await his call." Castiel kneels down and places two fingers on his forehead and Sam's pain and the nausea, all of it, disappears.

"He did?"

The angel turns to do the same thing to his brother. He murmurs a confirmation. "At the motel, he said he would call." It's not exactly how Sam remembers it but, whatever. It got Castiel here in time to save them and the town.

"Your brother is not well. He has lost a lot of blood." Sam knows that already; he's been watching the dark spot on Dean's shirt grow steadily larger for the last God-knows how long.

"Can't you heal him?" he asks because, hello? Angel. Which should mean all sorts of nifty heavenly superpowers.

"Healing is not one of my strengths," Castiel says cautiously. "However, I have done what I can."

"Awesome," Dean groans as he rolls onto his back. He has his hands pressed to the injury but now they're rubbing in small soothing circles rather than trying to hold his insides together.

Castiel straightens and moves to the altar and Sam thinks that it's odd how harmless he looks with his bland clothing and loosened tie. Then the angel stretches his hand over the altar and grinds out some incantation that makes it burst into flames. It burns blue and white and pink. It burns without heat and without damaging anything but the items on the altar.

"Don't burn the book, man," Dean calls out, or tries to, but his voice is faint and thready. "It might have info we could use."

"It is evil," Castiel states.

"So are the things we hunt," Dean points out and the angel pauses. He glances back at Dean then gives a small nod. The fire engulfing the book dies out and the rest of the altar dissolves into ash around it.

Sam sways to his knees. "Dean, do you need a hospital?" He thinks Dean might need a hospital. He doesn't wait for an answer, just peels the wet fabric away from where he pushed the knife in all those days ago and examines the skin. He has to wipe the red away. It's half-dried and tacky and doesn't want to be removed but Sam cleans it up enough to see that the cut has closed. The stitches are still there, broken and dangling like a badly done seam. The flesh underneath is angry and red, but the skin is sealed.

"How does it feel?" he asks because Castiel's magic touch left him feeling pretty good.

"Fucking peachy," Dean mocks. "Just give me a minute and I'll run a marathon."

"I'll be more impressed if you can get up the stairs without taking us both down," Sam says with a chuckle. He gets his arm under Dean's shoulders and levers them both upright with a skill born of many years of practice. It's sad how easy it is. It's also sad how supporting Dean drains him. They won. He should feel better than this.

"The book," Dean reminds him before they've even gotten started.

Before he can do anything the grimoire is thrust into his hands and Castiel is taking Dean from him. "I will carry him." Sam's about to say something about Dean's size compared to Castiel's but the angel just dips his knees and picks up the hunter as easily as Sam could pick up a child of six.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Cas. Put me down!" Dean orders even as Castiel walks up the stairs, angling his burden carefully to avoid hitting his head or his feet against the walls. "I'm not a freaking girl. I can walk."

"Your injury has weakened you. To deny it is foolish," the angel rebuts. "I will release you to walk on your own once we have reached level ground."

"You look good like that," Sam teases as he tiredly follows them up the stairs. Dean tries to flip him off but his finger barely straightens halfway before he's snoring into the angel's shoulder. He wakes up a little as he's put into the back seat and drifts to the surface a couple times on the way back to the hotel—once because of potholes and once because he smells sulfur—but both times Cas touches his forehead and tells him to rest so he does because they won, right? The angels are gone. The town is saved. Life is good. Yay.

Except there's a countdown ticking away in his head saying 'too slow, too slow, too slow' and a scary monster waiting at the end of the line if he fails.

He won't fail, he assures himself. He can't.

The next day they're in no condition to travel, although if Dean's honest, he's the one who can't sit in the car for however long it would take to get to wherever they should go next. Just the thought has his guts cramping in protest.

The other reason to stay put is that they have no new purpose: no immediate goal so no direction to travel.

That's okay with Dean. He's spending his recovery time re-reviewing his other selves' memories, trying to dig out more information. The more he looks at those memories the more he remembers, and the more he remembers the more he thinks they should go to Winston, Minnesota—although that doesn't sound quite right. He doesn't have all the details yet but there were ghouls and some kid who was important… A boy named Michael, he thinks, but that doesn't sound quite right either. He remembers it had something to do with baseball, so now he's sitting in the park across from their motel, enjoying the sunshine and the sound of children playing, trying to connect Minnesota, Michael and baseball, but other memories are intruding. Watching Sam play soccer, cheering him on extra loud because Dad wasn't there to do it. Watching Ben play baseball with Lisa's hand wrapped cozily in his. Her hands were always cold except when they were on him…

The sound of rustling feathers announces the arrival of an angel. "Dean."

"Hey, Cas." He looks up at the unassuming figure that's blocking out the sun. "Take a load off."

Cas' head tilts slightly and Dean realizes that he's puzzled by the term. Dean had forgotten that this Cas doesn't have his future version's understanding of human slang. "Have a seat," he explains and gestures to the park bench placed at an angle to his own. Castiel sits as directed and looks out over the busy playground. There's an elementary school nearby and it's recess, so the park is loud but happy.

"Sounds good, doesn't it." He glances at the angel. "Would've been a shame to erase all of them."

Guileless blue eyes stare back, questioning, assessing. "You asked for help. That was unexpected."

Dean keeps his eyes on the crowded tire swing. He can feel the heat in his cheeks. "Yeah, well. I knew how important stopping Sam Hain was. Something like that… What he would've done to those kids," he jerks his chin at the full playground. "My pride was a bit less important."

Castiel's silent but his gaze is still on the hunter, still assessing, examining. "Something about you has changed since I raised you out of Hell. There are–" he pauses, looking for the word, "–layers that weren't there before." Dean opens his mouth to make some reply. Cas beats him to it. "And being injured was not the catalyst," he continues. "It happened before then."

Dean can't maintain his shields, not if he looks at Castiel. The angel sees too much, at least that's how he remembers him, so the hunter looks over the playground and focuses on the feel of the sun against his face. He works on ignoring the deep ache in his stomach that's the newly re-healed injury. He concentrates on keeping his mind blank because this Castiel is still Zachariah's creature, wavering but not yet over on their side and he can't afford to forget that.

"I know what I'm doing, Cas," he offers.

"Yes," the angel agrees, "And that is also different." Wings rustle and Dean isn't surprised to see an empty bench when he glances over. A little girl's staring open-mouthed at the spot. She blinks at Dean and then runs off to her where her mother is waiting. Dean swallows a smile at the disappearing pig-tails. No need to ask if other people can see angels then. It's somehow reassuring to not be so special as to be the only one. Joan of Arc had never been one of his heroes.

He leans back on the bench, tipping his head up. It isn't Winston, Minnesota, he thinks. Windom. It's Windom, Minnesota and the boy's name is Adam. Adam Mulligan, Milligan, and there's something about him…

"What is it?" Sam asks his brother soon after he enters their room. A silent, thoughtful ghost that has only a passing resemblance to the brother he remembers from before. Hell started it, but Sam… What Sam did helped it along, but now it's something more. Maybe it's the vision thing, he thinks. Dean never was happy with all the psychic stuff. He's probably not adjusting well to being one.

He's turned in his chair, looking at Dean, knowing something happened out in the park but Dean's not looking at him. He's over by the coffee pot, drinking down another cup and staring out the small window. So he pushes it. "Dean. What's up?"

"Um, yeah." Green eyes glance at him, sharp and bright. "You ever wonder if Dad ever, you know, messed around."

"God, no. Eww," Sam rears back, recoiling in body and mind. It's an instinctive reaction that soon gives way to the thought that it would at least mean the old man had been human after all.

"Think about it now," Dean orders, twitching his shoulder, and Sam realizes that the subject makes his big brother extremely uncomfortable. He swallows his smile: time for a little fun…

"Okay, I'm thinking about Dad having sex." Dean flinches and Sam grins openly. "I'm guessing there's a reason you're inflicting images of naked, sweaty Dad on our psyches."

That one gets Dean good. His older brother curls in on himself a little, face tight, before shrugging it off. He turns to look at Sam. "What would you say if I said that we have a brother out there?"

Sam thinks about it, thinks about Dad being ten years older than he is now; of being unattached and on the road, like they are now. "I'd say that I'm surprised it's only one?"

Dean tenses and hunches over even more.

"I'd also say that you have more problem with it than I do."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. He peers into his coffee cup as if it will give him the words. "I know Dad wasn't perfect—" Sam can't help it: he snorts. Dean ignores him. "—but it still feels like he was unfaithful to Mom. Stupid, I know. Mom would've been dead for ten years or so."

"This is another one of your vision things?" Sam asks, but he knows it is. "You had a vision of a brother. And he's in danger?"

"Yeah," Dean says again. "If we don't save him, he and his mom are going to be eaten by ghouls."

Sam kicks the chair across from him in invitation and demand. "I think you're going to have to explain a bit more. In detail."

An hour later they're on their way to Minnesota.