Chapter 1: Walking Contradiction

Ms. Strahovski was surprised, and somewhat disturbed, to find a handsome young man in a leather coat and biker boots standing outside her door. He wasn't a student at Northeast High School; she was sure of that. She would have remembered him if he'd been a student since everything about him—the coat, his eyes, and attitude—all said "notice me".

"May I help you?" she asked, calmly professional. How had he gotten past her secretary? Annie wasn't susceptible to male charm, bribes, or verbal threats.

"Are you Ms. Strahovski?"

She nodded and the young man smiled. Oh, yes, she thought, she'd definitely remember that smile if she'd seen it before.

"I'm Dean. Sam Winchester's brother."

This was Sam's brother? "He's spoken of you," she replied cautiously.

"Yeah?" he said with a pleased little smile. "I'm sure he left some out."

He certainly had, probably starting with Dean having a misdemeanor felony record, but that wasn't something Ms. Strahovski was going to say out loud. "How can I help you, Mr. Winchester?"

Green eyes opened wide in horror, and Ms. Strahovski smiled inside. She knew exactly what the young man was going to say next.

"Dean," he replied on schedule. "Just 'Dean'."

"Very well, Dean. What can I do to help you?"

"Um, well. Something's come up—a family thing," he said. Curiously, he was shifting from foot to foot—the first signs of discomfort she'd seen in him. "I need to take Sammy out of school for a week or so."

"Impossible," she said. "It's final exams. Your brother's in, what? Grade ten?" Dean nodded. "Then he has at least two more exams to complete."

"Yeah, I know."

"The results of these exams can count for up to half of his final mark," she pushed.

"Yeah, I know."

"Your brother is a very bright young man. I'm sure you don't want to ruin his chances for a bright future."

But she'd pushed too far. Dean Winchester no longer looked uncomfortable; he looked pissed off. It was unfortunate that the hint of danger didn't detract from his attractiveness.

"Look, lady. If I wasn't concerned with his finals, I'da yanked him from school and we'd be on the road right now, but I do care, so I am here." He took a breath. It didn't reduce his anger by any appreciable amount. "We have to go to Minnesota. We'll be back next week, so you could just let him take the test then…" he trailed off suggestively.

"Mr. Winchester—Dean," she corrected when his scowl deepened. "That's just not practical –"

"Why not? We'll go, get things sorted out, and be back before the next semester."

Ms. Strahovski barely managed not to roll her eyes.

"I mean it," Dean said. "I mean, I gotta go do this thing in Minnesota, but it's just signing papers, I think. Then we'll come back and Sam can do his tests. I know it's important to Sammy, and if I don't have him back in time, he'll nag me ragged, so believe me: I'll have him back."

She was caught by a note in the young man's voice. He wasn't making this up. He wasn't trying to pull some con. He meant exactly what he said.

She took another look at him, trying to ignore the leather and the boots. The jacket was a size or two too big, as if it hadn't originally been his. It was, however, well cared for. The same could be said for the plaid shirt he was wearing over a thin, tight T-shirt. One button was different from the rest. It was also, now that she was looking, sewn on somewhat crooked.

Sam's clothes had shown the same care, but she'd ascribed it to his family not wanting to spend a great deal of money on clothes the boy would outgrow in a month or two. Sam Winchester was not only smart, but he was closing in on being the tallest boy in tenth grade, when he'd started out as nearly the shortest. And this was only January.

Now, however, Ms. Strahovski had to consider that there just wasn't that much money to begin with.

Yet Sam always had cash for lunch and for field trips. He was on the soccer team, which might have been the least expensive of their sports clubs, but still required special shoes and a uniform deposit. Looking at Dean Winchester, she realized it was he who made sure Sam didn't lose out. He was the one raising his sibling, not the father. She sighed, because it was an all-too-familiar tale at Northeast High School.

"Why don't you just go?" she asked. "Sam's certainly old enough, and mature enough, to be left on his own for a week."

Dean's scowl deepened. "Not to hear our dad tell it," he muttered. "Whenever we leave Sammy alone, he always gets into some kind of trouble."

Ms. Strahovski's eyebrow lifted. That wasn't her impression of Samuel Winchester. Then she thought of Sam's slim build, shaggy hair, and sweet smile, and realized what kind of trouble a good-looking young man like Sam could get into in this area.

"He has…?" When Dean didn't respond immediately, she prompted him. "Which two exams does Sam have left?"

"Oh, Biology and Spanish," Dean said. "Biology is tomorrow afternoon, and Spanish is Thursday morning.

Sam's brother knew Sam's schedule as well as Sam probably did. It was another sign the big brother was acting in loco parentis. "Are you sure you won't make it back for the Biology exam?" she asked.

She could see Dean frowning in thought and could even guess what he was thinking: it was Tuesday afternoon, and it would take at least five hours to drive from Lincoln to Minnesota, maybe more depending on their destination and the weather. Given that, she wasn't surprised when the young man shook his head.

"Don't wanna risk it. I could say yes, and not make it back then I'd be screwed," he said. "We could make it back for Thursday though. Could he, like, do the Biology exam Thursday afternoon instead? Sam thinks it's important."

And Dean would consider it important only for that reason, Ms. Strahovski concluded. "I'll make the arrangements, Dean," she said. "Tests on Thursday. New semester on the Wednesday following. No do-overs. Do you understand?"

"Got it," Dean nodded.

Ms. Strahovski watched Sam's brother swagger out of her office, and hoped she hadn't done the wrong thing.

~o0o~

Sam walked out of the school and saw the Impala first, and his brother second. He stopped, because that wasn't a good sign. Outside of emergencies or really crappy neighborhoods, Dean hadn't picked him up from school since Truman High in Indiana, and his showdown with Dirk the Jerk.

"See you tomorrow, Winchester," Dave called. Sam waved back even as he wondered if he would see Dave tomorrow.

As usual, Dean made Sam walk all the way to him at the car instead of meeting him halfway. It was some kind of power thing Dean wasn't even aware of doing. Their father did it, too—forcing them to approach him, come into "his space". It was annoying, and it made Sam want to yell at Dean, tell him that he wasn't Sam's father.

His mood wasn't helped by the way he ached, all over and deep. Growing pains, they called it, when the bones grew so fast it stretched the muscles and tendons. It made him short-tempered with the stupid secret way they lived their lives. It made him want to shout, and stomp, demand to know what was going on at the top of his lungs.

He couldn't do it.

A lifetime's training of 'keeping a low profile' just wouldn't let him be that conspicuous. So he did what he always did, his only way of asserting himself in public. He didn't rush. Instead, he walked casually, slowly, as if Dean waiting by the car for him wasn't a big, red emergency light.

"What is it?" he asked instead of saying hello. When Dean just clenched his jaw in that stubborn-ass way of his, Sam's imagination exploded. "Is it Dad? Has he been hurt?"

Dean worked his jaw loose. "No, it's not Dad. It's because of Dad, but it's not about him."

The pressure on Sam's chest lifted and he half-resented that he'd even been worried. It wasn't like Dad worried about them when he went off on these friggin' hunts and left them behind. Except, said a small, easily ignorable, voice, when he left Dean behind to make sure Sam was safe, like he had this time.

Of course, Sam didn't need a babysitter, but when he'd said that to their dad, all John Winchester, Mighty Hunter, had done was yell him down. He hadn't listened. He never listened.

The bitter refrain, combined with his aching bones, made his voice harsher than he'd intended. "You mean he hasn't been thrown in jail as a suspected psycho killer?" he sneered.

Dean looked at him. "You know he hasn't, Sammy. Don't be such a little bitch." Which was what Sam expected his brother to say, but then Dean followed it with, "It would be easier to wrap my head around if he had."

"What?" Sam asked, confused.

Dean didn't answer. Instead, he pushed away from the car. "Get in," Dean ordered.

Sam wanted to refuse. He deserved to know what was going on, after all, but Dean was upset in a way that was making Sam uneasy. Dean seemed almost… fragile. And that was not a word Sam had ever associated with this pain-in-the-ass big brother. So he did as he was told; he walked around the Impala and opened the back door so he could throw his bag onto the seat.

The duffle bags were in the back seat.

"Dean?"

"I already talked to the VP, Strahovski," Dean said. "I promised to have you back on Thursday for your last two tests."

"But…"

"Fuck, man! Just get in the car! I'll explain it on the way."

Sam did as he was told, but slowly, trying to figure all the possibilities. Injury, arrest, death, possession, extra help, the start of the Zombie Apocalypse…

"C'mon! Get your fucking ass in gear," Dean shouted from the driver's seat. "We got ground to cover."

"Why," Sam asked as he got in the car. "Where are we going?"

"Minnesota."

"Minnesota?" he repeated, stupidly. What the hell was in Minnesota?

It took him two hours to get the answer out of Dean. Two hours in which his bones itched and his muscles burned, and he was forced to listen to Iron Maiden screaming at full volume. He knew it was Dean's way of getting rid of anger when he couldn't shoot something or beat someone up, but it didn't stop the headache from forming at the base of Sam's skull.

However, since it was his brother's way of dealing with anger, or any other strong emotion, Sam gave him those two hours, before he reached over to the cassette deck and turned it down.

"What's in Minnesota, Dean?" he asked. "'Cause it has to be serious if you're taking me on a hunt."

"It's not a hunt," Dean snapped out.

Of course not, Sam thought with familiar bitterness. He wasn't trusted on hunts yet, even though he was fifteen years old. Dad had taken Dean on hunts with him when Dean was twelve.

Not that Sam really wanted to hunt, but it was the principle of it.

He sighed. His psyche was completely messed up.

"So why are we going to Minnesota? In January, no less?"

"Turns out… About a half-dozen years ago." Dean stopped again and swallowed. Sam's eyebrows went up at the display of nerves.

"It turns out Dad's condom broke. Or maybe he didn't bother wearing one." Dean's voice was bitter.

Sam's jaw hit the leather seat. "You mean–" he started to say, but Dean wasn't finished.

"Either way, he didn't know how to keep it in his pants. So, yeah, we've got a half-brother out there, Sammy. One he damn-well hid from us."

"We have a brother?"

"Half-brother," Dean answered.

"Another Winchester?"

"No," Dean snapped. "Dad and the kid's mother never married."

No matter how shocked Sam was, the chance to needle his brother was too good to pass up. "They don't have to get married for his kid to have the right to use Dad's last name."

Dean turned to glare at him. "It's 'Milligan'," he said. "The kid's name is Adam Milligan, and from what the dude on the phone said, his mom hadn't even told Dad."

"Lucky kid," Sam muttered low enough so that Dean probably couldn't hear him. "So she finally decided to tell Dad, and since Dad's nearly impossible to get hold of, she told you instead. Is that what happened?" Sam prepared himself to repel the head-slap he knew was coming.

"No, jackass. That's not what happened," Dean said. He didn't aim a slap at Sam's head though. He just resettled his fingers around the steering wheel, and Sam could see the knuckles turn white. "She died."

Sam's lips formed a silent 'oh' of comprehension. "Dad's the next of kin?"

"Apparently," Dean confirmed. "But since Dad's not available, I'm gonna have to go and figure out what to do with the kid."

"What d'you mean 'what to do with him'? He's our brother, and family sticks together, right?" Sam said. "I think I saw that in a Disney movie."

"Right, like you believe that," Dean replied. "You're the one who's always bitching about how awful you were raised –"

"How we were raised," Sam interrupted.

"Yeah, but I didn't mind it," Dean said, cutting him off.

Part of Sam wanted to argue, as it always did when the subject came up. How could Dean like moving all the time, never keeping any friends, never having a home to bring them to—never knowing if Dad was going to make it back from whatever MOTW hunt he's on? But he didn't bother. Dean had made up his mind that he was okay with the life, because Dad had said it was a "good enough" life, and like a wind-up soldier, nothing Sam said would ever get Dean to question it.

He looked out the window. It was snowing. Not hard, but the flakes were big and they reflected the headlights like a reverse Rorschach.

"You won't be able to do much," Sam said. "Dad's the guardian, not you."

Dean took a deep breath. "I can figure out who in her family is best able to take care of the kid. Check them out; make sure they're not pervs or assholes."

"You think Dad's gonna show up?"

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel, "I phoned Dad; left a message. Sent another one to Bobby since he knows the guy Dad's hunting with. "

It was all that he could do.

~o0o~

Between the weather and the unfamiliar roads, it took them nearly six hours to reach Windom, Minnesota. The snow had gotten steadily worse, heavy enough that the sides of the main highway Dean had chosen for their route were blurry and hard to distinguish from the acres of farmland on either side.

Dean hated snow.

Specifically, he hated what the salt and gravel did to his baby. Every 'ping' and 'snick' was a reminder of how he'd be spending at least some of his spring touching her up, tuning her up, until Dad pronounced the job done right. Not that he minded spending time with the Impala. Dad may have only given it to him last fall after he got his GED, but she'd been his since Dad gave him his own set of keys. He hated paint fumes, though.

"Here." He tossed his cell phone to Sam. "I programmed the guy's number in. Look for Joe Barton's name."

Obediently, Sam opened up Dean's phone and scrolled through the short list of names. There was Dad, of course, though most of the time his number was useless, and there was Jim Murphy, and Caleb, Uncle Bobby and Travis Munroe. It was easy to find the one that didn't belong. He hit the button to dial Barton's number, leaning away when Dean tried to take the phone. "Take care of the driving, Dean. These roads seem slippery."

Actually, Sam had no idea if the roads were slippery or not, but if he got Dean worried about wrecking the car, his brother would stop trying to take the phone.

The phone stopped ringing and a surprisingly mellow voice answered with a short "Barton."

"Joe Barton? This is Sam Winchester, John's younger son?"

"Sam Winchester," Barton repeated. "Dean said you'd be coming along. Too bad about the weather. Driving okay for you guys?

Sam blinked. "Uh, yeah. It's pretty bad out here. But Dean's a good driver." Beside him, Dean muttered something arrogant about his driving that Sam ignored automatically.

"Oh good to hear, you bet. So, when do you think you'll get here?"

"Well, we're in Windom now, coming in off highway 60," Sam said. "How do we find you?"

"Jeez, that was fast. Too fast for the road conditions, I bet." Barton's voice held mild condemnation, but the guy let it drop. Instead, he gave Sam the standard folksy directions (the "turn left when you see Patterson's cow statue" thing instead of street names). Sam dutifully wrote them down, relying on the lights of passing cars to see what he was doing.

"Just ignore the fifteen-minute time limit and park out front," Barton said in his Barry White voice. "Doubt we'll have many people coming in tonight, ya know."

"We should be there in a bit."

"Should be quarter hour tops, depending on your tires," Barton said.

Dean barely waited until Sam was off the phone. "Well? Which way do we go?"

"Keep going until we hit a cow,' Sam replied, and grinned at Dean's expression.

Turned out the cow was as easy to spot as Barton had said. Even with the steadily falling snow, a purple-and-pink statue of a cow that was two-times larger than normal, was easy to spot. The rest of his instructions were just as easy to follow, but it took twenty minutes because Dean wasn't willing to drive too close to the gravel truck that was spitting out rock chips and salt down the main road. Finally, they turned the last corner, drove straight down 'til the road ended, and looked at the only building left before the river.

"The police station?" Dean said in disbelief. "He didn't say anything about being a cop."

"Maybe he figured we'd know?" Sam suggested dubiously. "Besides, it's not like we're doing anything illegal."

"No," Dean agreed, voice filled with sarcasm. "That's why I have a credit card in the name of Lyman Cardanas in my wallet, next to Albert Lamb's driver's license."

Sam just grinned. As the baby, his wallet was spotlessly legal.

They got out of the car, and Sam shivered the instant they hit the sub-zero weather. His winter coat was at least third-hand—once from Goodwill and once from Dean—and it was wearing thin. Their breath puffed out in clouds.

"I keep looking around for the ghost," Dean said in a low voice.

"You too?" Sam asked in surprise.

Dean looked down at him. "Kinda hard not to," he said. "It's trained into me. Like teasing your scrawny ass."

Sam punched him. "You do that because you're a jerk."

"Absolutely not," Dean argued. "I do it because it's a requirement of being an awesome big brother."

"An awesome jerk."

"Bitch, bitch."

They jostled their way through the main doors—Sam losing ground because he was still half a foot shorter than Dean—but when the deputy behind the desk looked up at them and frowned, Sam quieted right down. Unlike Dean, he didn't want to be known as a Bad Boy. Mr. Wyatt, his English teacher at Truman High, had asked him what he wanted to be; did he want to be like his brother and his father. Sam's answer had been "no". It was still no. And part of achieving that was not behaving like a cocky smart-ass in front of authority figures.

So he ignored the warm blush filling his cheeks and nodded at the desk sergeant. He got peered at over little glasses with the security string drooping from the side, and the frown didn't quite go away. In fact, judging from the lines on the guy's face, Sam figured frowning was his normal expression, but it lightened a little.

"Great," Dean muttered, not softly enough. "A twofer cop shop. Wonderful."

The desk sergeant's frown went back to its former depth. Sam sighed and looked around.

It was pretty small for a police station. The desk wasn't even as long as the counter at a Taco Bell. To either side of the lobby were heavy wood doors. The one on the right had "Windom City Police" spelled out in brass letters. The other one said "Cottonwood County Sheriff".

There were signs warning that video of the lobby was recorded for security purposes, and that people entering the precincts could be scanned and their bags searched. There were lists of all the seriously unfriendly things that would happen to them if they tried to smuggle contraband or weapons onto the premises.

Sam swallowed. All he had was an innocuous penknife. It was silver-plated, but it was still easy to explain, but he knew Dean carried a knife in a sheath down his back, and had a smaller blade in an ankle holster.

"Can I help you there, boys?" asked the guy behind the desk. He was an older man dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform shirt with a sheriff's badge on the pocket. There were creases in the sleeves, razor-sharp and ruler-straight. The deputy's hair was a thick salt-and-pepper cut into a box-cut with creases as rigid as the ones in his sleeves.

"Yeah," Dean answered with a swagger.

"We're here to see Joe Barton?" Sam said, interrupting whatever obnoxious thing Dean was about to say. "I'm Sam Winchester; this is my brother, Dean."

"You're the Winchesters?" he said, surprised. The guy lifted his eyebrows over the top of his granny-glasses, creating a different style of frown.

"That's right," Dean said with an edge of belligerence. "We're the Winchesters. We're here about–"

"I know why you're here," the deputy cut him off. "Windom isn't that big yet, ya know, that we can't keep track of our neighbors."

In other words, the gossip mill was running overtime about Adam and his mother and John.

"Why dontcha boys have a seat over there." He waved at the seating area. "I'll call Deputy Barton and let him know you're here."

Dean might've argued, but Sam caught his eye and lifted a brow. Dean huffed, shoulders rolling in exasperation. Sam jerked his chin at the tiny seating area and wiggled his thumb. Dean thought for a moment and smirked in agreement, sure of victory. So they spent the wait playing thumb wars, and sitting in hard little chairs that were barely better than a Laundromat's.

Dean won, of course.

It was annoying.

"Dean?" Joe Barton's voice was unmistakable. Joe Barton was thin, if the stick-like neck emerging from the puffy fleece-and-down jacket was any indication. He also had heavy-framed thick glasses and a beard shadow that added two tones to his already swarthy skin. He still looked like a kid playing dress-up.

Dean let go of Sam's thumb. "Yeah, that's me."

The deputy held out his hand to shake Dean's, like Dean didn't look like a delinquent with his greaser hair and leather jacket. Dean only hesitated briefly before taking it.

"Glad to see you made in spite of the weather," Barton said. "And quickly, too. You must be some good driver." Dean shrugged off the compliment, but allowed himself to be lured into talking about driving a heavy old rear-wheel drive in fresh snow for a moment or two.

"All these new-fangled front-wheel drives… It takes some getting used to steer out of a slide, now." Then he said, without taking a breath or changing inflection, "Graham, I'm taking them in."

"You're going to run them through the detector?" asked Deputy Graham from behind the desk.

Graham the Grumpy Deputy—it suited him, Sam thought. That was when Sam realized that he was both tired and really hungry.

"Yah, no," Barton replied. "I'm sure it'll be good."

Whatever response Deputy Grumpy might have made was lost under the "whoosh" as the heavy door opened into the county sheriff's office. They walked through and were faced with a metal detector. Deputy Barton waved his card to deactivate it.

"So, Joe," Dean said with an alarmingly unsubtle smile, as he walked through the device. "What other family does Adam have?"

"Family?"

"Yeah, aunts, uncles, cousins," Dean elaborated. "He has to have some."

"Oh, for sure. He has grandparents, but Kate's father had a stroke a couple years back, and Jessie's showing signs of Alzheimer's, the poor thing," he answered.

"That's too bad," Dean said, managing to almost sound sincere. "What about sisters or brothers?"

"Lem's in the service, ya know. Stationed overseas," Joe replied, leading them down a plain corridor and past closed doors. "And before you ask, he's unmarried. If there'd been anyone else, I never woulda dragged you and your brother up here. Not in this weather. Jeez no."

Dean grimaced—busted! Sam shot him a rueful look and he tipped his head in a shrug. "It's just that what we do," Dean explained. "The way we live, it isn't a good environment for a kid. Ask Sam. He can give dissertations on the subject."

Sam elbowed him in the ribs. He may complain about it to Dean or Dad, but that didn't mean he told other people about it.

Barton had stopped in front of a plain door, with a small window. He had a hand on the knob, but he didn't run his keycard through the reader. Instead, he waited and listened to all the reasons why they couldn't, they shouldn't, take Adam with them. He nodded and said "You betcha" at the right moments.

Light from overhead whited out his lenses so that Sam couldn't see his eyes. He couldn't tell if the deputy was really listening or just playing along as Dean wound down. At the end, all Deputy Joe said was, "If it's not you, it's an orphanage, or worse. Now, the state'll do their best—I'm not saying they won't—but he'll still be one among thousands, for sure. So dontcha think half-assed family's better 'n no family t'all?"

And Sam knew Dean had lost.

They were about to adopt a little brother.

"We share interview rooms and showers with the city cops," Barton said in his deep voice as he swiped open the door. "The jail's here, too, ya know, and it works pretty well. Saves both the county and the city a buncha money."

They walked into the small bullpen, which consisted of all of four desks, each with computer monitor and telephone. A female officer sat at one of the desks speaking into a headset. Talking to one of the cops on patrol, Dean realized.

Three of the desks looked like working desks, with binders, Kleenex, coffee cups, and notepads scattered across their surfaces. The fourth was mostly bare, and that was where a little boy sat, drawing pictures on white copy paper using crayons from a big, new box. He had floppy, sandy-colored hair, and pink, pudgy cheeks.

"Jesus," Dean breathed. The kid looked like Sammy at that age.

"Dean, Sam, I'd like for you to meet Lisa Sharpe," Barton said, and pulled Dean's attention from the little Sammy-clone. "She's Adam's case worker."

"She" was as round and short as Joe Barton was tall and thin, light to his dark, but where he was gawky and casual, she was buttoned-up and stern. There was a look in her eye that didn't bode well for ne'er-do-wells and rogues, and from the comprehensive examination she gave him, Dean figured she'd put him on that list.

"Call me Ms. Sharpe," she said. "Easier to remain professional using last names."

"Miz Sharpe." He smiled as he shook her hand, his bland 'not looking for anything' smile. "Call me Dean."

"Mr. Winchester," she emphasized.

Dean's eyes narrowed: was this lady for real?

"If you don't mind me asking, but how old are you?"

"Nineteen," Dean could feel himself tightening defensively. He hated this shit. Yeah, he was born nineteen years ago, but he hadn't been just his physical age since he was four. "But don't let the package fool you, lady. I've got what it takes."

Miz Sharpe gave him another all-over look, taking in his scuffed biker boots and the ripped jeans, the layered shirts. Her eyes paused on his amulet before examining his face—lips, cheeks, eyes, and hair. Unlike a lot of older women when they looked at him so closely, there wasn't the smallest hint of interest in her gaze.

"So we need to talk," she said to Deputy Joe.

"Now, Lisa. Don't be like that." Joe protested, but Miz Sharpe marched off to the far side of the office and into a small glass-walled room. She stood there, holding the door open, and stared at the deputy.

"You know her?" Sam asked.

"Windom's a small place. Everybody knows everybody here," Joe said before following the social worker.

Sam looked at Dean, but Dean had noticed: Barton hadn't looked at them when he'd said it, and he'd blushed, which meant he wasn't telling them everything, and that meant they needed to be in that room with the two of them. No way should Deputy Do-Right and Miz Sharpe be talking about him and Sam without them present.

He pushed Sammy ahead of him because most people couldn't resist the eyes and floppy hair. Miz Sharpe was no exception. She glared at them a moment, and then ignored them in favor of ripping into Barton.

"What are you thinking, Deputy Barton?" she said, almost before the door finished closing. She gave Dean a short, dismissive glance before turning back to her original target. "No offense, but they're kids. You can't really expect me to hand Adam over into his care?"

It didn't take Sammy's pinch for Dean to know to keep his mouth shut.

"It'll just be temporary," Barton replied. "Until the father shows up, ya know." This time it was Dean's turn to squeeze Sam's forearm until the princess kept his snorts to himself.

"Oh gee, yah. That'll be so much better," she said with a skeptical lift of an eyebrow. "And when's that going to be?"

Dean got another squeeze in on Sammy before he answered her. "I called the company's head office–" meaning Bobby Singer "–and asked them to take a message out to the camp" –meaning see if he could raise anyone on the CB.

"They have to get someone to drive it in," said Sam, picking up his cue like a pro.

Miz Sharpe's eyebrow stayed up, and she added strong-looking hands on hips to her stance. Like Wonder Woman, Dean thought, without the whip or the cleavage. "And so that translates to how long?"

"A week, maybe," Dean supplied.

"A week." Her voice dripped delicate contempt. "Maybe. If your father is more reliable than a couple teenagers."

"Jeez, Lisa," Barton protested. "It's just a week, whatever. Even if they sometimes forget to feed him, he won't starve to death, ya know."

"Dontchu dare joke about that, Joseph Connor Barton!"

Dean knew his own eyebrows had gone up in surprise. She'd used all three names on the dude, which meant she was seriously pissed. It also meant they were on a better than last name basis. Or had been.

"Dang! Sorry, sorry. I forgot," Barton apologized, but even Dean knew it was a crap apology and wouldn't win him any points. Barton's wince said he knew it, too.

"You forgot." Miz Sharpe's disdain was now covered in ice. And claws. "Typical of you, Deputy Barton."

"Lisa, honey, I explained that to you, plenty of times." The guy was practically begging… in a laconic, monotone sort of way.

Miz Sharpe sneered without moving her lips. "Oh yah, sudden break in the case," she replied. "But, according to Sheriff Dowd, there was no break."

"I didn't have a chance to call him," Joe tried to explain.

"Sure, uh-huh. Like you didn't get a chance to call me." Only the tightly clipped enunciation indicated how pissed she was.

"Listen, Miz Sharpe," Dean said, breaking into their little soap opera moment. "Just because the deputy here forgot a date –"

"It wasn't a date," she snapped. "It was our wedding."

Oh.

Dean turned to look incredulously at Deputy Joe. "You missed the wedding?"

Barton shrugged. "I had to get your father to the hospital."

"He claimed he'd been hunting ghouls. Ghouls!" she spat. Barton shuffled his weight and pushed up his glasses.

Again, Dean stared at the deputy. "You told her you were out hunting ghouls?"

Deputy Joe shrugged and looked even more embarrassed. "It probably wasn't my finest bit of thinking."

Dean barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the idiot. "Ya think?"

"So you can see, Mr. Dean Winchester, son of John Winchester, why I'm not exactly willing to accept Deputy Barton's assessment of your character."

"Jeez, Lisa, c'mon," Joe protested. "Whatever history's between us, these boys are not a part of it. So don't go and punish them just because I'm asking you to consider something a little outside the rules."

"A little?" She gave a short laugh. "He is not Adam's father, ya know. He isn't even his father's authorized agent," she said. "He has no more legal authority here than some person off the street."

"They're brothers," Joe protested.

She snorted. "Sure, they may share some genetic coding, but that doesn't mean he'll actually take care of Adam, ya know."

"Dean knows how to look after kids," Sam interrupted. "Our dad's been a single parent for a long time, so when I was little, he was usually working after school and stuff. Dean took care of me. He still does."

Dean tried to look like Sam's words hadn't surprised him, or touched him, or made him feel embarrassed and warm. "I, uh, just did what I had to," he said, clenching his hands into fists in his jacket pockets, and resisted the urge to scuff his feet. "I think Sammy turned out okay."

Miz Sharpe turned her laser eyes to Sammy and looked him up and down. Clean clothes, lightly mended; hair floppy, but clean; beanpole body—all-in-all healthy looking.

"He even came to school and made arrangements to move the rest of my final exams to Thursday."

"Yeah, and it wasn't easy," Dean said. "So if you could just hand over Adam, we'll be heading back tomorrow and he'll be out of your hair."

Her stare shifted back to Dean. "I'm not sure I'm understanding you," she said. "If you think you can take Adam out of Windom then you're mistaken."

"But I have finals," Sam protested.

"On Thursday," Dean added. "And if I don't have Sam back for them, Ms. Strahovski's going to have my balls for dinner."

"Yah, I'm sure they'd be more of an appetizer," she shot back. Dean's eyes narrowed.

This time Sam kicked him to shut him up. Dean glared at him before turning back to the ball-buster. "I need to take Sam back to Lincoln for his finals. We'll take Adam with us, be back in three days. How's that? That's being a good parent, right? Balancing responsibilities."

"Not a chance," said Miz Sharpe. Barton opened his mouth but Miz Sharpe lifted a finger to stop whatever he was going to say. "I won't budge on this, Joe. There are four dead children out there."

"Oh, come on!" Dean protested. "It's two frigging days, lady, not 'til the end of time. We drive to Lincoln. Sam takes his tests—tests that are important to him. Meaning, he'll be beyond upset if he misses them, and then we drive back here to… do whatever we have to do for Adam."

"Four dead kids," she repeated. "Three of them were in the system; two were part of my case load."

Dean's face hardened. "We are not frigging axe murderers," he growled. He wanted to step forward, into the bitch's space, push the issue until she surrendered. Only Barton's raised hands, kept Dean and the ex-fiancée apart.

"Now, just hold back, there. She knows you didn't have anything to do with those deaths, because they may have been freaky, you bet, but they weren't homicides–"

"Joe! Gosh darn it," she interrupted. "I am not suggesting that these boys had anything to do with the death of those children. I'm just saying that he's too young to have that kind of responsibility." She glanced at Dean and threw an off-hand "no offense" at him.

"And yet, I'm offended," Dean said deliberately.

Deputy Joe raised his hands and waved them in a vaguely placating manner. "No need for that now. Lisa's just being overly cautious and you can't blame her for that, ya know."

Beside him, Sam snorted quietly. Dean knew why his brother had laughed, knew how he'd earned it. Didn't mean he didn't feel like punching something (or someone) for suggesting he couldn't, or wouldn't, look after a kid properly.

"Maybe I don't like to be judged by some prissy chick in a power suit," Dean snarled. "Not everyone in a leather coat is a bad guy."

"So you say. I say, why take chances?" she snapped right back, fake smile firmly in place.

"Come on now, you two. Just settle down." Joe held up his hands. "Besides, the final decision isn't yours to make, Lisa. It's mine. Kate gave me full powers in her will and the will allows for vacations, which are usually two weeks. Three days is completely acceptable."

"Thank Christ," Dean muttered.

"Joe Barton!"

Deputy Joe was still waving his hands. "We'll get a full itinerary, contact names and phone numbers," he said to his ex-fiancée. "They'll check in when they get there and when they're about to come back, won't you, boys?"

Dean ground his teeth together and nodded like a good boy. Sam made his eyes the widest they would go and nodded along with him.

"Okeydokey," said Deputy Joe. "So that's all settled, right and tight."

"For sure," Miz Sharpe said with a wide, fake smile. "I'll just go talk to Adam; get him ready to meet you."

Her boot heels clicked a pissed-off staccato on the linoleum floor.

Dean waited until she was through the door. "You were engaged to her?"

Joe smiled. "Oh yah. She's a fine woman, and a good person, you bet.

Dean wasn't the most sensitive of guys, but even he knew that saying Deputy Joe could do better than that hard-assed shark would be crossing the line. So he just nodded, and made a noise that Barton could interpret however he liked. He ran a ragged part through his hair with his fingers; it had been a long, frigging day, and it wasn't over yet. He could use a pot of coffee—the whole pot. However, first things first.

"We'll need someplace to stay. Someplace nice," he clarified, "but not too expensive."

"Oh, you'll be staying at Adam's," Joe said with a small frown. "It's one of the reasons he can't leave. Or at least why he shouldn't leave, ya know."

"No, I don't… What are you talking about?"

"The terms of his mother's will state that Adam is not to be uprooted," the cop said. "As long as you guys stay in Windom with Adam, the house is his, but take him away for longer than a vacation, and the house gets sold and the proceeds go into a trust fund."

"Adam's got a house?" Dean asked stupidly.

"You betcha," Joe answered with a smile. "For sure, Adam's got a house."

Dean looked at Sam because when he'd heard Dad had gotten some lady pregnant, he'd pictured a waitress or a hotel maid—someone who lived like them. Having a house meant Kate Milligan had been a couple steps up on the socio-economic ladder and chicks like that tended to stay away from rough-edged guys like him and Dad.

Maybe it was a trailer. An old double-wide in a trailer part somewhere. That would make more sense.

Sam had leaned forward, eyes wide, all traces of sulk gone. "Is it a big house? With a yard?" he asked.

"Oh sure, it's a big house," Joe interrupted the brewing argument. "And it's got a yard."

"Cool," breathed Sam, and Dean could see his brother's dream of 'being normal' sparking behind his hazel eyes.

"We have to talk to Dad first," Dean said in warning.

"Oh hey, yah. Talking about your father. Is he really likely to make it in a week?" the deputy asked.

Dean and Sam shrugged. "It depends on when he gets the message," Dean said. "Cell phone coverage ain't exactly great where he is."

"And what he's hunting," Sam added.

"Huh," Joe said then stopped. He glanced through the glass wall to where his ex-fiancée was crouching next to Adam. "Well, if it's not too much trouble, how about we don't mention any of that to Lisa? I'm still hoping to convince her to give me a second chance."

"Dude, it's been seven years!"

Joe just smiled. "Ya, I know, but… some things are worth fighting for." He walked out of the little room and all Dean could do was stare after him.

"It must be nice to know what you want, like that." Sam said.

Maybe it was nice, Dean conceded. It was also freaking bizarre. "Come on," Dean said instead of anything else. "Let's go meet our new homeboy."

"Please, Dean. Do not start with the gangsta talk," Sam pleaded with a roll of his eyes.

"What? I totally rock it," Dean said, leading the way back into the tiny bullpen.

"You totally don't," Sam argued. "Besides, aren't you the one who said chicks don't dig that kind of talk?"

Dean snorted. "I was lying when I said that."

"Whatever." The Eye-Roll of Disgust was getting a good work out tonight, Dean noticed. He managed to not respond in kind, since he was supposed to be a Responsible Young Man and they were close enough to Miz Sharpe for her to notice. She looked up as they approached. "Adam," she said. "Adam, these are the boys Deputy Barton was telling you about. Do you remember what he said?"

"Unka Joe said they were my brothers. Older brothers." Large hazel eyes that reminded Dean so much of Sam's gazed at them in an assessment that wasn't any less complete than Miz Sharpe's had been. It was a lot less judgmental though.

"My friend Will has big brothers, but they're not as old as you. How come you're so old?" Adam asked Dean.

Sam turned his head and laughed into his sleeve. He wasn't going to let Dean forget that one any time soon.

Dean ignored him and talked to Adam. "Because Dad—our father—was a lot younger when he had us."

Adam didn't say anything, just stared up at Dean, chewing on his lip. Sam waited for the next gem to come from the kid's mouth.

"I don't have a dad."

"For sure you do, Adam," said Joe. "It's just that him and your mom never lived together, ya know."

"I thought mom and dads had to live together," Adam said, confused.

"Oh, it's different," Deputy Joe answered lamely.

Adam didn't hear him anyway. "Didn't he like Mom? Or maybe he didn't like me. Tom Maker at school doesn't like me. I don't know why."

Joe shot them an embarrassed look and seemed at a loss for words. Miz Sharpe looked disgusted. She opened her mouth to say something, but Dean beat her to it.

"Listen, kid. I'm sure Dad liked your mom just fine," he said firmly. "In fact, you wouldn't be here if he'd disliked her. But he was probably long gone out of town by the time your mom knew she was pregnant with you, and as far as I know, your mom never told him." He looked to Joe, and the cop nodded his head. "Yeah, your mom never told Dad that you were in the works, so his not being around has got nothing to do with you. It's not your fault; you couldn't've done anything about it. You understand?"

The kid—their brother—looked up at Dean with those wide, hazel eyes. His mouth—Dean's mouth—hung open as he thought.

"Why didn't Mom tell him?" Adam finally asked.

Dean laughed. "Kid, if we had a dollar for every time our parents did something weird, we'd all be rich."

Sam looked at Ms. Sharpe. She was still crouched beside Adam, and she was looking at Dean. Sam saw puzzled surprise on her face instead of the cold look she'd been wearing from the minute she first saw Dean.

Hah! She hadn't expected this. Nobody expected Dean to be good with kids. Hell, Dean didn't expect it.

Sam had never understood how Dean did it. He acted like such a macho asshole most of the time. Scared adults made him sneer. Scared teenagers made him impatient (unless they were female and pretty, then Dean turned into an opportunistic sleaze) but put him around a scared or upset kid and the guy turned golden. Yet, as far as Dean was concerned, he didn't like kids, and didn't know anything about how to deal with them.

Talk about self-delusions.

Or maybe he thought it was too "girly", Dean's standard go-to reason for rejecting anything he thought didn't suit his hunter image—which was the same as Dad's ex-Marine image, and therefore completely unreasonable, Sam fumed.

"Is it okay if we come live with you for a while?" Dean asked. "I hear you got a big house."

Adam looked down and away. He picked up the crayon and rolled it around his fingers. "It's really empty," the kid said. "It doesn't sound right, because it's empty, and it's empty because Mom's dead." Adam looked up at Dean, eyes even bigger than before, and shimmering with unshed tears. "I don't want Mom to be dead."

Sam saw all Dean's bullshit resentment fall away as big fat tears rolled over Adam's cheeks. He reached out and plucked Adam from the chair to hold him close. "Aw, kid," he murmured. "Nobody wants their mom to be dead. It sucks, and it never stops sucking. You just gotta remember that she loved you, and she didn't want to leave you."

Adam's arms were vise grips around Dean's neck, and the little boy was sobbing his guts out. Sam's macho asshole brother rocked the kid back-and-forth, and ran a soothing hand down his back, humming something by Metallica low and off-key.

Sam snuck a look at Ms. Sharpe. Her mouth was open in shock.

"Told you he's good with kids," Sam said smugly.