Chapter 7

Dean had planned to reach Waterloo, Iowa before stopping, but halfway there his stamina gives out. He's been chugging coffee and sports drinks trying to replace the liquid he lost, but he's still tired and losing focus. Last thing he needs to do is drive them into a tree so he takes the next turn-off to wherever.

"Dean?" Sam asks from beside him. It's almost a shock hearing his voice; they've both been so quiet.

"I'm done," he replies. "Need to get some decent shut-eye then some decent food."

"I can drive," Sam offers.

Dean snorts. "Not a chance. I'm not trusting the car to a guy jonesing for a hit of demon blood." He says it without rancor or blame, surprising himself, but he supposes he's got so much other stuff he could be upset with Sam about that letting himself get talked into drinking Ruby's blood has dropped low on the list. Either that or he's just too damn tired to care.

"Actually, I'm good," Sam says carefully. "No craving, nothing."

Dean turns to look at him. His eyebrow goes up in disbelief. "Nothing?" Sam holds out his hand to show that it's steady. Dean can't help his grunt of surprise.

"I know. Weird, right?" Sam drops it back on his lap. "Ever since Don… that spell he used, I've been good. Like it pressed all the toxins out of me."

"You were sweating buckets."

Sam grimaces in remembered gross-out. It hadn't been until he tried to get out of the Impala and had had to unstick himself from the leather seat that he'd realized just how much he'd perspired in the hour Don Harding had kept them squirming on the floor. And he'd smelled: sweat tinged with fear, pain and with a faint overtone of sulfur. Even Dean, half comatose from blood loss, had noticed it.

"You think that two wrongs finally made a right?" Dean jokes—weakly, but Sam barks out a laugh.

"Maybe, I dunno," he says. "Whatever the reason, I'll take it."

Dean wants to poke at it, look for the small print because their luck has never run to straightforward, but he refrains. It's the first time Sam hasn't been angry about Dean cutting off his supply, so to speak. Plus some more of his future self's memories have surfaced, of Sam demanding to be treated as a man, a hunter, and not only Dean's little brother. And Dean remembers himself wondering, a couple years from now, if Sam would've stayed away from Ruby and what she offered, if Dean had treated him as he'd asked. Worrying about Sam, trying to guide his steps, is such second nature to Dean that it's hard to let go.

For those reasons, he knows he should let the guy take the wheel. Except Sam also has bags under his eyes the size of Pittsburgh. Dean's not been the only one losing sleep lately.

"Four hours won't kill us," Dean says, keeping his tone casual—a suggestion, not an order and it works because Sam agrees. So they turn into the first motel they see, or rather that Sam sees because Dean's starting to space out a little.

It's a long, one-level L-shape with dark siding and accents that people in the '60s labeled (incorrectly) as Spanish-style. Dean waits in the car, hand unconsciously rubbing at the wound, and looks at the flower boxes set as wheel stops along the edge of the parking lot. There aren't any flowers, only dirt—and cigarette butts that add another level of 'nobody cares' to the place. It's depressing to look at when he has memories of fresh-mown lawns and bright roses sitting in his mind. Lisa, out in gloves and a floppy hat, pulling weeds from her tidy little flower patch. She'd shooed him away when he'd pulled up a pansy or petunia—something with 'p'—thinking it was a weed. Here, weeds would be an improvement.

It's also familiar, he thinks, and he looks harder at the nooks and crannies. Then he snorts. He's stayed at thousands of motels and they're all the freaking same: stale air, hard beds. Impersonal and cold.

He should get a decent picture of him and Sam, put it in a frame, maybe tuck one of Dad's old photos in the corner, and put it out at night. He kind of liked that about staying with Lisa for the year, having actual mementos instead of just memories.

Stupid thing to be thinking about in the middle of a hunt.

Sam climbs back into the car, holding out the room key. He grimaces. "This place charges by the hour so I only got four." Dean groans his agreement of the strategy because hourly rates usually mean stains and smells they'd rather not identify.

It's not until he's getting out of the car that he looks up and sees the motel's sign. In flickering neon it reads 'Toreador Motel' and a cascade of memories overwhelms him. "Ah, hell," he groans.

"What?" Sam asks.

Dean closes the car door with more force than he normally uses on his baby. His heart is beating double-time because this is… this is unfair. What purpose is served by having them turn up in the same town as Chuck Shurley? None. "I know where we are," he answers his brother, grabbing their bags out of the back seat.

Christ, he thinks. Now he has to figure out some way of telling Sam about the books.

"In Hicksville, Iowa?"

"Kripke's Hollow," he says. His hand is shaking. He's got both bags in one hand and he lifts the other to close the door and it's fucking shaking.

"And?" Sam says, his face and voice full of WTF-edness.

"It's home to Chuck Shurley, better known or, maybe, not known, as the author Carter Edlund." He glares at Sam, cutting off his inevitable next question. "Look him up, geekboy. It'll be fun reading."

Sam looks at him in narrow-eyed enlightenment. "This is another vision thing, isn't it."

"Yahtzee," he snaps out, knowing he sounds angry and bitter.

Sam's just staring at him, staring at him instead of opening the motel room door like he's supposed to, so Dean glares back until Sam finally gets a clue and opens it. Dean barely waits for it to unlatch before he's barging his way through and tossing his bags down on the bed. He knows Sam is staring at him. He knows Sam is starting to get concerned but that's likely to move into pissed off soon. And he knows he should calm down but he fucking can't.

"So what's this one about? Do we have to kill something? Rescue someone?"

Destiny is a fucking lie, Dean tells himself. It's a lie and whatever fate the angels are whispering to Chuck he's going to change it into something better.

"Jesus, Sam," he spits before he reins himself in with deep breaths, in-out, rinse and repeat. Not Sam's fault, he tells himself, and wasn't it less than an hour ago he'd decided to treat Sam more like a responsible adult rather than his kid brother? "Sorry, man," he manages to say. "It's just this stinks of angel crap."

Sam nods. "I get it, I get it," he says comfortingly. "Except that I completely don't. What is it about this place that has you so spooked? Who is Chuck Shurley?"

"Chuck Shurley is a Prophet of the Lord," Castiel says from beside Dean and makes the hunter jump. "He is writing what will one day become known as the Winchester Gospels."

Sam's mouth is open. "You're kidding me."

"No, he's really not." Dean's staring at the angel wondering why Cas showed up here and now. He's also thinking he'd really like to grab that fifth of whiskey he had stashed in the trunk.

"How come we've never heard of them?"

"Thankfully, they're not that popular," Dean answers. "Plus the publishing company went out of business."

"The first book was published in 2005," Castiel says without inflection. Dean tries to stop Cas but the angel just keeps going. "It documents the start of your journey: your mother's death, the hunt for the woman in white, your father's disappearance, the death of Jessica Moore." Sam's face turns chalky. "The last published book covers the fight with Lilith in New Harmony and Dean's death."

"That's…that's insane," Sam's face is still pasty but color is returning fast. "How could he know that stuff?"

Castiel tips his head in confusion. "He is a Prophet."

"That would mean that everything we've done, every decision we've made, every action we've taken, was pre-ordained," Sam says with false calm. "There's no way, Cas. No way some second-rate author is dictating our every move from a little burg in the middle of Iowa." Dean can hear the anger simmering under his brother's voice. Oddly enough, it helps calm him down, as if there's only room for one pissed-off Winchester at a time in any given space.

"Actually, this might be a good thing," Dean says slowly, feeling his way through the thought. "Both the angels and the demons had plans for us—an agreed-upon script—but I screwed that up when I killed Ruby. Sam's off the demon blood, so he doesn't feel invincible anymore. He doesn't want to kill Lilith—"

"Yes I do," Sam contradicts him. He pauses then shrugs. "I'm just willing to concede that maybe killing her might not be the best plan, that's all."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to," Dean states. "So, with all these changes, is Chuck even writing anymore? And if he is," Dean adds before the angel can comment. "Maybe it'll give us an idea of what the angels have planned." He looks at Sam then at Cas, then back to Sam because he's thinking it's a good idea, probably, and this unexpected side trip could turn out to be the validation of all his future selves' gruesome ends. Or it could prove that you really can't fight city hall.

Which reminds him…

"Why are you here, Cas?"

Bright, blue eyes look away in embarrassment. "I was sent to keep an eye on you." Even his voice is tinged with apology. He almost sounds like the Cas that Dead Dean the First had known—practically human. "My superiors suspect you have been receiving information and they want to know from whom."

"How do they know that?" Sam asks.

"Uriel caught… an echo, I suppose it could be called, of something after the fight with Sam Hain. It was not enough for him to identify your source but they suspect an angel." Castiel gives a small sigh. "I am to find out who or what is giving you your information and to stop them."

"It's working," Dean says, smile growing. "I'm changing our so-called destiny."

"Given the number and length of emergency meetings my superiors are having, I would say that you are… messing up their plans."

Dean lets out a triumphant shout. That's the best news he's heard since… Wow, a long, long time. He doesn't want to think about how long their lives have been a mountain of suck but it's hard to avoid.

"So," Sam says slowly, "I was really going to go Dark Side? That's what God had planned for me?"

Castiel gives Dean a quick glance before looking at his younger brother. "I no longer believe that our Father is necessarily the one in charge of the Garrison's response to Lilith's invasion."

"God's left the building?" Sam asks incredulously.

"Cas says it's not up to God to decide mankind's fate, since he gave us free will and all," Dean says bitterly. "That's not stopping the angels from giving it a damn good try, though."

"They knew?" Sam angrily turns on the angel. "You knew that I was… what Ruby and I were doing, and you didn't warn me or tell me to stop?"

This time Castiel turns away, his retreat a silent apology. "We knew about the demon's blood. We were told to warn you but not to interfere in any way."

"Dean's right," Sam says low and bitter. "Angels are dicks."

"Not all of them, not quite," Dean says and he stares at Castiel as he says it. "Are you ready to help us try and end this thing or are you going to keep being a tool?"

"You are asking me to rebel."

Dean shrugs, a half-nod, half-shaking movement. "No, not really just… do what you're doing in a way that helps us fight back, that's all."

"You want me to spy on you?" Castiel's head is tilted so Dean knows he's confused.

"Yeah," the hunter agrees. "You report back to Zachariah and then you come tell us how the other angels reacted to the news. Nothing complicated, nothing underhanded."

"Just kind of sneaky and devious," Sam says with a roll of his eyes. "You really want to work with this guy?" He's still angry. Or rather he's still letting his anger show.

It doesn't mean much, Dean thinks, rubbing a tired hand over his face. Sam is always angry. Stopping the all-you-can-drink demon's blood buffet doesn't seem to have changed it. "Yes, I'm going to work with Cas," he says. "This is Angels and Demons, Sam; Godzilla versus Mothra and we're the poor little cops with handguns trying to save Tokyo."

Sam stares at him for a moment longer, shoulders tense, lips thin from the desire to argue and then his brother swallows, rolls his shoulders, looks away, and the moment's past. "Godzilla versus Mothra, huh?"

Dean shrugs in reply. It was the best example he could come up with. And he's never going to tell Sam about that memory. He wonders what Anna's up to in her hospital room, but feels no need to 'rescue' her. After all, the angels hadn't gone after her until he and Sam had found her. Still, he hopes she's okay.

"You know the best thing to do when they fight is to get out of the way?"

Dean snorts out a laugh. "I'm trying. Believe me, I'm trying." Then a yawn jumps out of him, jaw-crackingly huge and kind of painful and he remembers why they originally came to this place.

"You are tired," Castiel states. "You should rest."

"That was the plan," Dean agrees rubbing both his hands vigorously over his face and scrubbing at his scalp in an attempt to bring alertness into his brain. "Until we wound up in The Prophet Chuck's backyard. Like our lives are some huge cosmic joke."

Sam frowns. "Do we need to go see him?"

"It might be a good idea to see what the angels have planned for us," Dean points out.

"But we already know that they don't know," his brother replies. Sam gestures at Castiel, standing patiently in his corner. "His presence is proof of that."

"And would knowing what The Prophet has written change your immediate plans?" Castiel asks.

"Unless our previously-unknown illegitimate half-brother's actually bait designed to lure us into some kind of trap…" Sam looks at both of them with a face filled with false brightness.

Dean stares at him in disgust. "I wasn't going to tell Cas about Adam."

Sam's confused. "I thought you trusted him?" Two sets of eyes stare at him, one hazel, and one blue.

"I do," Dean assures them both. "It's just that he still has to report back to Zachariah and he can't lie for crap. If we don't tell him the stuff we don't want the angels to know then he doesn't have to try."

"Why shouldn't the angels know about Adam?" Sam asks. "He's not, you know, us."

"He's still a Winchester," Dean mutters. Sam glares at him impatiently but Dean thinks that says it all.

Castiel, after a glance at the hunter, takes over the explanation. "The ability to be a vessel to angels of Michael's power, or Lucifer's, is in the blood. It is in your blood and it will be in his blood, passed down from your father and his father and so on."

"So Adam's got it too," Sam says, enlightened.

Dean's moved onto the bed, not bothering to remove his boots. His eyelids are drooping, but he snorts, amused. "You make it sound like a disease."

"A rare genetic variation, actually," Sam replies slowly, "One of the doctors in Memphis thought you—I mean, we—probably had… Shit, I can't remember the name. Some long German thing. It's rare but people who have it tend to heal faster, live longer, that kind of thing. She wanted to do tests." Dean lifts an eyelid to ask a question. "No," Sam answers. "I didn't let her."

"Thank you for that," Dean says. He decides not to open his eyes again. He's got enough trying to ignore the throbbing ache that used to be his body. Knife wounds and witches' spells, angel healings and six hours in a car: not a fun mix.

Unfortunately, Sam's not finished. "So the reason you want to save Adam is to keep him away from the angels because he can take either of our places."

"He cannot take yours," Cas informs Sam. "You were corrupted with Azazel's blood to prepare you for your role as Lucifer's vessel."

"So it's just Dean he can sub for," Sam says. Dean hears his brother shuffle on the carpet. He can picture Sam's half-embarrassed, half-offended face without looking. Other than that, and the chugging AC unit that works as well as the motel sign outside, it's quiet. Dean lets himself drift, no worries. Or at least ignoring as many as he can.

"You still think I'm going to say yes." It's an accusation. One Dean doesn't want to answer considering they're doing better. Not as good as a year ago, but not as bad as Memphis. "I'm not… I'm not drinking Ruby's blood anymore."

"You do not have to ingest it voluntarily." Dean hears the rustle of cloth and pictures Cas moving his shoulders in an almost-shrug. "They would be perfectly willing to kill as many people as it would take to ensure your cooperation, including your brother and your friend Bobby Singer."

Bobby. Future Soulless Sam killed Bobby. Now Cas is saying that this Sam might do the same damn thing?

"I thought you said the angels need Dean to be Michael," Sam asks, bewildered.

"That is the plan of the forces of heaven," Castiel confirmed. "However, Lilith might prefer to kill Michael's vessel and thereby avoid the final confrontation completely. Lucifer would win by default."

"Or you could use Adam," Sam states, voice tight with anger. "Now that I told you about him."

"Michael would have found him eventually." The angel's voice is soft, as if he's trying to console the younger hunter or maybe Dean's just not hearing him fully because the world is muffled and distant and sleep is just a turn away…

This time his dreams are a straightforward nightmare of his time in Hell. Even sleeping, he's disturbed by how relieved he is by that.

Dean's soft snore breaks up the brewing argument between Sam and his brother's little angel.

Dean's fallen asleep. His hand is lightly cupped over the place the knife went in, as if it still hurts him, but there are no whimpers or twitches that indicate he's in a nightmare. Not yet. Unspoken agreement has him and Castiel dropping the subject of possible future Heavenly betrayal. Instead, he decides to research this 'Prophet of the Lord' guy while Castiel starts an unblinking vigil in the corner of the room nearest Dean. Which isn't creepy at all…

As he waits for the laptop to boot, he wonders how it is that Dean gets angelic guardians, which, okay, dicks, but still. His big brother has the forces of Heaven on his side and what does he get? One back-stabbing demon and iffy visions. It hardly seems fair. But then, when has his life ever been fair?

Dean got four years of being a whole family, a real family, with both parents and a home. He got the road, a bossy big brother and a drill sergeant for a father. He'd worked for something more, caught a piece of it, and had it snatched away. Dean had skated through life, never planning for the future and here they were—in the exact same place. Except that Dean ended up in Hell as punishment for his impulsiveness, a little voice reminds him. His choice, he snaps back at the voice. I didn't ask him to make a deal for me.

His angry guilt compounds when he wonders if, given the same circumstance, if he would've done the same thing for Dean and he doesn't automatically answer 'of course'. Because he still hasn't figured out how it could've been worth it.

He pushes away from the small table, making it rock on unsteady legs, and goes out to the Impala to grab the food cooler. There's not much in it, peanut butter and old bread, but there's beer and that's what Sam wants.

Dean was the one so pissed at Dad for making a deal, he reminds himself, taking a long, refreshing drink, so it was hypocritical of him to turn around and do the same thing.

"Would you have let me stay dead?" pops out of his mouth.

Castiel blinks out of his upright coma and focuses his gaze on Sam. "I beg your pardon?"

"When I died, in Cold Oak, if Dean hadn't made his deal, would you have let me stay dead?" Sam's fingers are white on the bottle. "If I'd stayed dead, wouldn't that have ruined the angels' plan? Or did my death not matter if Dean didn't sell his soul? What would the angels have done to me? To Dean? How far were they willing to go?" He's firing the questions at the angel so fast Castiel can't answer but the frown between his brows is growing. Sam finally runs out of accusations, runs out of breath. He drains the beer in two long gulps and it sloshes unpleasantly in his empty stomach.

Castiel frowns and watches. "I'm sorry, Sam. I cannot answer your questions."

"Why not?" he demands. "You're part of it, right? One of their loyal soldiers."

"I-I was," Cas glances away briefly before looking back. "I am sorry, but they didn't tell me much. They still don't."

Sam resists the urge to throw the bottle against the wall. He's tried throwing things; it doesn't release as much frustration as it should. "And you never asked?"

"I was given orders and I obeyed."

"No wonder you and Dean get along so well," he says bitterly. In a blink, Castiel is in front of him, staring fiercely up at him with a confidence that lets Sam know that his height is no advantage.

"Do you know how many angels have actually seen God, Sam?" Castiel growls. "Four, and I am not one of them. So, when one of the Archangels—one of our Father's favored ones—gives me an order, I take it on faith that it is His order and that it is just. If I don't have that faith—if I disobey—then I will be killed. So tell me again, Sam, who was I supposed to ask?"

"Uh…" Sam says stupidly, mind blank.

"That's what I thought." And Castiel is across the room, standing in unblinking vigil.

Sam realizes he's backed up against the wall but can't remember retreating. However, he can't feel the retreat was a bad idea, even with his dignity in shreds.

He sits down in front of his laptop because he's always found research to be soothing. He types in 'Chuck Shurley' and gets no useful returns, not even a Facebook page, but Dean said he published under a different name. It takes him a moment to remember what it is, but when he does the results are much better. There's even a wiki. Since that's always a good place to start, Sam clicks on it.

An hour later, Sam's read all the synopses of all the published books and they perfectly match some of the hunts they've done. From the racist truck and cannibal hillbillies to his very own Groundhog Day and Dean being killed by Hellhounds, it's all documented and dissected. The wiki has links to other fan sites and he spends a little time exploring the world of Sam-girls and Dean-girls but the whole slash thing has him shutting the laptop in disgust and wanting a shower.

But it also looks like visiting with the author, finding out what the angels are currently telling him, is maybe a good idea.

He unclenches his jaw. Then he grabs his keys and his wallet.

"When Dean wakes up, tell him I'll be back with pizza." He has no problem with using Castiel as his messenger service since the angels seem to have no problem with using them as their wind-up toys.

"Sam," Castiel puts out a hand to stop him. "Prophets are very special. They are protected."

"What do you mean?"

"If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. I would not be able to help you."

It's a warning, but Sam doesn't understand why Castiel's giving it to him. Until he looks down and sees how tightly he has the keys clenched in his fist. He wants to protest that he has no intention of threatening Chuck Shurley, a.k.a. Carter Edlund, but he's angry, again. Still.

All the shit he's been through, that Dean's been through, and it's not just some perverted chess game played by angels, it's been turned into a public forum where complete strangers, with no understanding of what's really going on, feel free to comment on their pasts and their actions and their morals. He doesn't want to know how samlicker81 would've handled Madison's death if she'd been the author. She wasn't the author. There wasn't an author. It was just him and Dean, living it, and just because some dude has been set up as a kind of angelic recording device doesn't change the fact that this is his life!

He stares down at his hands, once again fisted tight around the keys.

"I think I'll, um, go for a walk instead."

"Very wise."

He puts the keys down carefully, without a sound, and steps out of the dingy motel room into the dingy parking lot. They've got another two hours here. He looks at the town, sees the river on one side, the fields on the other. The place is tiny. Picturesque. He'll probably be able to tour most of the town and still have time to spare. He shuts the door carefully behind him and picks a direction.

It's nice to be out, in the sunshine, stretching his legs. He's enjoying it. It's relaxing.

Very.

Only two hours, he thinks, and they'll be back on the road, and the Impala, although roomy, wasn't built for a man who's six and a half feet tall. Plus it's stuffed full of memories. He'd grown up in that car, played in the back with Dean, argued with Dean, slept leaning on Dean. They'd carved their initials in it one day while Dad slept off too much Jack. It's home and it's too small. Too much pressure to be Dean's 'Sammy' and not Sam, an adult. A hunter, just like Dean. Just like Dad.

He hadn't wanted to be a hunter.

He remembers that feeling clearly, of being so determined to be something else. It hadn't been a sudden thing, no one moment that he could point to and say 'a-HA! That's why I want to be different,' but an accumulation of moments, minutes and hours of being left behind, of worrying, of changing schools and stitching wounds. Of never being able to answer the question, 'so what does your father do?'

Fuck…

He stops and takes a deep breath. Then another. He's reached the riverbank where, unlike in bigger cities, no effort has been made to clear a path. It's all thick brush and treacherous rocks. Sam doesn't bother going down. Instead, he flips a mental coin that tells him to go left, so he goes right just to prove he can, that 'destiny' (he sees the air quotes in his mind) has no hold on him.

If Jess hadn't been killed, if they'd—he'd—been left alone, would he have kept right out of it or would he have done the occasional hunt with Dean, knowing it was the only way they had to connect? Would they have found some other way? It's not a thought he's allowed himself to have before, but given how they hadn't talked more than twice in the four years he'd been at Stanford, he doesn't think they would have. So, to have Jess and 'normal' he would've had to give up Dean.

He can't picture it anymore. At one time he could: life without Dean.

Sure he'd been living it a couple months ago, but Dean's… absence was supposed to be temporary. He'd been going to get Dean back because, after losing Jess—okay, and Dad—he couldn't stand to lose Dean too. Some of his guilt sloughs away when he remembers that he did try to change places with Dean. He wasn't such a selfish asshole that he hadn't tried. And he hadn't been relieved when they didn't take him up on it, he tells the voice. He'd been angry. He's still angry.

Which is why it's not a good idea that he's in the residential district.

There's all of two streets and four cross avenues, with sidewalks on only one side of the road. He hadn't meant to stop and look up Chuck Shurley's address in the phone book, but he had.

And it's right across the street.

Dark. Unkempt. It's a cute little house that could use a shitload of work. The perfect place for a fairly unsuccessful transcriber of angel dictation to live.

How much does he know?

Does he know Dean killed Ruby? Has he written about Sam stabbing his brother while high on demon blood, and how Dean hasn't forgiven him for it yet? Does he know the angels are uncaring assholes on the same level as demons? Does he know Sam's standing across the road from his house wondering if he should march up the steps and bang on the door?

He can picture it perfectly: 'Hi, I'm Sam Winchester. My brother's name is Dean. We're the Sam and Dean you've been writing about.'

The guy would call the cops before he finished the last sentence.

'Hi. I'm Sam Winchester and I want to know why my brother felt my life was worth so much more than his that he was willing to go to fucking Hell to save me?'

He's tried not thinking about that question.

Tried, in time-honored Winchester tradition, to push it to the back of his mind and pretend it doesn't exist, but he still feels like Private Ryan at the end of the movie standing over Tom Hanks' grave, trying to prove that he'd earned the right to have a life when so many had died giving it to him. 'I hope I've earned what all of you have done for me. I hope that it was enough.' Or something like that.

Sam doesn't feel like he's earned squat. And his life could never be worth what Dean paid for it.

Ties of guilt, ties of loyalty, ties of anger, of love, of family, ties of memory. Ties and chains and ribbons of hope. An ugly chain binding him and turning him and spinning him around until he doesn't know what to do anymore.

He stands, staring, while the clock ticks down. There's no movement, not even a curtain twitch. An elderly woman comes out of the house on the right and scowls at him but Sam ignores her.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Where r u?

Lost in my head, he thinks. Heading back now, he texts back.

Need p u? comes through, followed by Room times up.

It's as if Dean wants him to know that he's not being overprotective. Which is weird because Dean's always been overprotective.

I'm good, he replies.

Five minutes later he stops in front of a little greasy spoon place that looks like thousands he's seen before. Except this one has an article from a magazine proudly displayed in the window.

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Dean needs to eat healthier.

On the other hand, if Dean finds out about this place and realizes Sam kept him from it then Sam'll never hear the end of it. With a sigh he wonders if their chicken burger matches Oprah's friend's opinion of the beef burger. He pulls out his phone to text the change of plan to his brother but a soft voice interrupts him.

"Hello, Sam."

He looks up and sees a slim, blonde woman in a tight cat-suit, smiling at him with jeering familiarity. He doesn't know her but she called him by name, and in his life? It's never a good thing when strangers know your name.

She pouts. "Aw, don't you recognize me? Although, to be fair, you've never seen me in this meat before. Do you like it? I picked it special."

"Lilith," he murmurs in stunned realization.

"Bingo!" she cheers. He tries to slide away but there are bodies—big bodies—blocking his retreat.

"You know, I'd forgotten how much fun could be had in adult meat. It's been about, oh, five millennia since I wore a grown up. I picked a nice one this time, didn't I? She was a dental hygienist and wanted some adventure. Well, I've certainly given her that." She smiles, knowingly. The evil, murderous demon runs her hands over the body she's wearing, lingering a little long on her most curvy parts. Sam notices that her zipper is pulled down rather low. "You like it, don't you?"

It's not a question so Sam says nothing. That's alright though; Lilith hasn't finished talking anyway.

"Don't get me wrong, being some pompous old guy's Lolita never gets old, but this–" she waves at her body "–gives me more freedoms in your world than dressing as a child."

Playing Lolita? Sam swallows down bile as he realizes the implications of Lilith's statement. That last little girl, in New Harmony, had been ten, maybe eleven. For Lilith to use them, let some guy… touch them… It makes his stomach churn with disgust, pity, horror, and rage that Lilith can exist in the same world as them.

"What do you want?" he grinds out.

"What does any sentient being want, Sam?" she asks brightly. "I want to live."

And he wants her to die a thousand horrible deaths, just like his brother did in Hell. His hands are tight enough he can feel his cellphone casing crack in his grip.

"However, for now, I want you to come with me."

"I don't think so," he growls. All she does is laugh, light and tinkling, and Sam wants her to stop—now. "Ruby's dead," he spits out. "She worked for you, didn't she?"

"Not for me," Lilith protests. "She worked for Him,"

"For Lucifer."

"Of course," Lilith confirms. "She was a loyal servant of our Lord. It's a pity she's gone. This would be so much easier if she were here."

It's Sam's turn to protest. "No it wouldn't."

Lilith just laughs. "Oh, please. She had you eating out of her hand. Or, you know, a vein, but same difference. You were begging her for more and never counting the cost." She sighs but Sam barely hears her over the roaring of his blood. Dean had been right. He'd been right about Ruby. Son of a bitch.

"Now we'll have to do this the hard way," the demon says with a shrug.

"I won't drink anymore demon blood. You can't trick me anymore."

Lilith smiles, but this time it's filled with malevolence anticipation. "Who says you have to be willing?"

Sam can feel the two demons behind him shifting, getting ready to grab him, and he braces himself for what will likely be a short and useless fight. He turns to put his back to them and nearly knocks over a little skinny guy, who's busy looking at Lilith's borrowed cleavage rather than where he's going.

"S-sorry, man," the guy says.

Sam looks down at him and, whoa, he looks worse than Dean. "No problem, man, but this isn't a good place to be."

He lifts a skinny finger, even as he swallows nervously, "Yeah, but beer."

Sam's got his back to the liquor store beside the diner. In fact, he's got his back practically to the door. It's a little alcove, which means that Lilith's minions can't grab him from the side. It also means the little guy can't get in to get his fix. Sam really, really doesn't want to move from his spot.

A minion reaches out and grabs hold of the guy's arm, probably to drag him out of the way so they can dig Sam out of his hidey-hole, but suddenly there's a boom, like deepest thunder. The wind blows down the street strong enough to knock over garbage cans and mailboxes. The sun is gone, replaced by angry, dark clouds.

"Oh, you can't be serious," Lilith says with a whine. She points at the skinny stranger. "Honestly? This guy?"

Another thunderclap and a flash of sheet lightning. The air starts to feel dense, pressurized. It's getting hard to breathe.

"Fine!" she spits, and just like that the demon smoke is pouring from her mouth. It's followed by the smoke of her minions. In only seconds, all three bodies are empty and the street is oddly quiet.

"So, I'm going to get some beer," the guy says, his voice going up in question.

"I'm thinking whiskey, actually," Sam replies without thinking.

"Yeah, that would work."

They look at each other and share a moment of complete understanding. Then one of the bodies groans and sirens sound in the distance. The moment passes. A quick nod, an embarrassed smile, before the guy goes into the liquor store and Sam continues on back to the hotel. He's not going to mention this to Dean. His brother would freak and worry, and they'd be back the way they were before Sam Hain and their relationship still seems too fragile. Besides, he doesn't know anything.

Dean's just going to have to live without trying the cheeseburger Oprah's girlfriend said was "the best bacon cheeseburger in the country".

In the end they don't visit the writer-slash-prophet either because Cas thinks a visit would attract too much attention from the archangels. Dean agrees because he just doesn't want to find out the last two weeks have been wasted; he's fine being an ostrich. Besides, he doesn't know exactly when the ghouls ate Adam and his mom. All he knows is that they'd been dead for a few months when fake Adam had called Dad's old cell. That leaves a whole lot of time for the crawlies to be munching.

On their previously hidden half-brother.

He can't believe Sam's reaction to finding out they had a brother they'd never known, because he'd always been the one demanding to be told everything, yet he finds out another one of their father's Big Lies and he's completely cool with it. In fact, Sam's busy rehashing memories of their childhood trying to figure out when exactly Dad had sneaked away to be with his secret son. He's also interrogating Dean about what his 'vision' had told him about Adam and it's forcing Dean to sift through those memories and he's not liking what he's finding.

Maybe Dad hadn't wanted his innocent younger son exposed to their taint. Or maybe Dad had hidden them from Adam, so that his uncorrupted baby boy would never grow up to be like them. Would never become a hunter, would never have to fight demons.

Or die ripped apart by hellhounds.

Dad had protected Adam from all the shit he'd dropped him and Sam into. He'd tried to be a regular dad to Adam instead of the drill sergeant he'd been with them. Fishing and baseball games with no surprise attacks or caustic debriefings to spoil the fun. Dean knows it's juvenile and stupid, but even with the buffer of his other self's perspective from three years on, he's fucking jealous. In fact, Dean is trying really fucking hard not to feel betrayed by the situation.

What had Adam done to deserve the father Dean can just kinda remember from before the fire?

"I wonder what he looks like," Sam asks and it's one question too many.

"He looks like himself," Dean snaps back. "And he's probably not gonna be happy to know about us. You do realize that, right?"

Sam stares at him and Dean keeps his eyes solidly on the road.

"You know, this isn't the reaction I expected from you. I mean, we have another brother. I'd've thought you'd be, I don't know, excited."

Dean doesn't realize he's rubbing a hand over the place the knife went in until Sam glances down, pales, and then presses his lips together before turning away. "Of course, you're not having any luck with brothers lately, are you."

"Not having any luck with much," Dean counters because he really doesn't feel up to another discussion about how sorry Sam is. "You ever think that maybe we're getting too old for this crap?"

"For what?"

"Driving around in a car: no home, no family. Nothing but pain and blood and sacrifice and no end in sight." Sam doesn't respond and Dean carefully doesn't look. He hadn't meant to say that.

"Dean, man. What's up?"

It's Sam's concerned voice. Dean hates it when Sam uses that voice on him. As usual, Sam doesn't take Dean's silence as a clue. "It's not just finding out about Adam, is it? It's all of it. It's-it's me. What I did."

He needs to cut this shit off now. "Sam," he warns.

"No." Sam huffs. "Ever since that night you discovered me and Ruby… found out what we were doing, you've looked at me funny. When you look at me at all." He half turns in his seat, making sure Dean knows how serious he is.

Pivotal moment, Dean thinks. It's one of those times when they could rebuild something or he could add another stick of dynamite to what's left of their relationship. Is he going to hold onto his resentment that Sam didn't listen to him? He looks at his brother, so fucking huge in the Impala's front seat. All grown up but still only, what? Twenty-five? Dean had been sure he could save everything at twenty-five; he'd been a cocky little shit. Still is, because even knowing the hold Ruby had on Sam, he'd ganked his brother's lying-ass, demon fuck-buddy right after they'd… Yeah, bad call, and that means he's partly to blame for what happened after.

"…are you even listening?"

"Sorry, man. What?"

"I'm trying to apologize. For–" Sam waved a finger at Dean's gut "–you know. I screwed up. I admit it. Happy?"

"Happy?" He grimaces. "Not so much. But I'm working on hopeful." It pulls a sideways grin from his brother.

Sam squirms in the seat, wiggling until he's facing Dean fully. "Why didn't you punch me? I expected it, after you found me with Ruby. And a couple times since."

Dean's quiet. He thinks about pulling over so they can do this properly. Decides not to. "Because hitting you, yelling at you, wouldn't have changed anything. You would've stopped for a while, maybe, but eventually something would've happened to convince you that you had to start up with the blood again."

"I wouldn't have!"

Dean sighs. "I'm sorry, Sam. You're… you were angry all the time." Still is, but Dean isn't going to say that. "Self-righteous and arrogant. And trusting. Shit, not just trusting, but naïve in a way that's stupid and friggin' endearing." Okay, getting mushy, he warns himself. "What other bad choices will you make because you think you're in control? Or because you think it's a good idea and worth the risk? C'mon, man, you get so focused on the end result that you don't see what's actually happening and nothing I say can change your mind—"

"You're talking about Lilith again."

"Actually, I wasn't but, yeah, it fits. So does you leaving for Stanford, or hunting for Yellow-Eyes after Jessica died. Or go back further to winning that stupid trophy in middle school. Face it, Sam, you've always been obsessive and driven. Just like Dad."

"I'm not like Dad."

"You two are practically twins, personality-wise." He can feel Sam staring at him in disbelief so he pushes himself to explain, pulling the words from the future that's not going to happen anymore. "I worshipped the guy, you know? I dressed like him, I acted like him, I listen to the same music, but you are more like him than I will ever be."

Sam's silent. He's twisted around so he's looking out the window again. "I don't know if that's a compliment," he finally says and his voice is carefully emotionless.

It would have been once, Dean concedes to himself, but 'once' is forty years in Hell and two ghosts ago. "I don't know if it is either."