Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about.

Alternate Born-Again Identity

THURSDAY NIGHT

Dean feels a little awful hiding in the bushes next to the Mason's garage, watching Edgar work on his classic cars. Leaving Sam like that even when he had his puppy eyes on full strength... As if I need more to feel bad about... He can't even get excited about the cars since he misses his impala so much. Scowling, he reprimands himself, Don't think about that stuff. I have a job to do.

He triple checks that he has silver rounds loaded, palms the machete in his coat a few times, and waits impatiently for the chomper or shifter to show. He had seen the real Trish leave half an hour earlier, and if the thing is going to come tonight, it's going to soon.

Then finally, after what feels like forever but may have only been a few minutes, 'Trish' appears in the garage doorway with pistol in hand. She doesn't even hesitate before emptying the clip into Edgar's head.

Well so much for that rescue, Dean thinks sarcastically before adrenaline and muscle memory take over and he's firing rounds into her chest.

Trish sputters and drops the gun as he charges her. Total shock written all over her face, she gasps, "Dean... Win..." and staggers into the wall. Dean is standing over her in seconds with machete arcing back.

"Winchester or wins? Both work," Dean replies like the smart-ass he is before slicing her head clean off. Victories are so very few and far between: it's important to savour them.

The monster's head and body hit the floor and Dean smiles. Then he glances at Edgar's riddled corpse. Well... semi-victory.

His phone rings suddenly, and-still riding the adrenaline high-he beams at the caller ID. Perfect timing, Sammy.

EARLIER THURSDAY NIGHT

Sam knew it was pointless, but he couldn't help trying to run away... Even if it's his own mind he's running from. He ran and every time he stopped, Lucifer was there, laughing and taunting, and then he'd run some more. Eventually, Sam found himself curled against a dumpster in a decrepit alleyway like some druggie.

"Sam, what the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay in the room!" Sam jerks his head up at hearing Dean, who is now standing over him looking utterly disgusted. "You honestly can't do anything right, you know that?"

Sam pulls his limbs in tighter and closes his eyes. Not Dean. It's not Dean. Dean wouldn't say that... would he? At this point he isn't sure anymore, and that scares the shit out of him. He looks up at his brother's face and his breath hitches; he's seen that disgust before, heard that disappointment before. Too many times to count.

And just as Sam starts to believe it might really be his brother, he looks at his arm. 'Memory loss.' Could Lucifer be giving me fake memories too? Times I've failed Dean? He takes a calming breath and wills his racing pulse to slow. "You're not Dean," he forces through gritted teeth, "These memories are fake."

'Dean' grins sadistically and backs up. "Well, you're half right," he concedes, "I'm not your brother, but those memories are all real. I can't give you fake memories, but I can suppress real ones for a while. Hold on to that little snippet before I take it away too," he chortles and vanishes.

Sam chokes back tears, He could be lying... Dammit... I'm so fucked up...

After a few moments, he starts to appreciate the silence and lets his eyes droop shut...

Then Lucifer decides to kick the damned dumpster he's resting against.

Sam's exhaustion and frustration get the better of him and he shouts, "For God's sake, fuck off!"

"For God's sake? Really Sam? You think that would get me to leave?"-Lucifer applauds- "I've got a genius on my hands!"

Sam covers his ears.

A stranger's voice pipes up then, "You okay, buddy?"

Raising his head, Sam sees some man in his 50's walking up cautiously. Great. I bet I look like some insane homeless guy... Oh wait... I am.

The man steps closer. "Hey, it's alright. I'm-" he stops suddenly with a curious expression. If Sam were firing on all cylinders and didn't have a film of unshed tears blurring his vision, he would have noticed the recognition. He seems to be in a hurry all of a sudden, and says, "I'll be right back... Let me call some help."

What, am I bleeding and I don't know? Sam crinkles his brow in confusion and looks at himself. Not bleeding... Call some help... Help for what? Dean might know... Where is he?

After taking a few minutes to persuade himself to move, Sam struggles to his feet. He's decided it's time to get back to the motel... and then realizes he has no idea how he got here or where here is.Maybe that old guy knows... and where is Lucifer? He walks stiffly around the dumpster where said old guy is still on the phone, whispering urgently.

"Hey, can you... tell me where... I am?" Sam stutters out.

The old guy snaps the phone shut quickly, and looks at him like he can't decide to take a swing or run away.

I must look awful, Sam thinks sadly.

"Yeah, you're in Algona Iowa," he finally replies coldly.

Sam just sighs irritably and tries to find a street sign. Right, thanks. I'm not that far gone yet.

And then the short old asshole grabs his arm.

Sam practically snarls at him, but the dude clearly doesn't take the hint and holds on, saying, "Don't go anywhere. Help's on the way."

Help? Who can help...? "You called Dean?" Sam asks confusedly, and is almost ready to reevaluate his opinion of this guy... if only he would let go of his arm.

"Yeah, that's right," the old guy nods quickly, "Just sit tight. He will be here in a few."

But then something isn't right. How would he know to call him? How'd he even get his number? Sam wrenches his arm out of the rough grip and backs up on high alert, ready to bolt.

It's at that moment, that 3 police cars pull up.

"Don't move you son of a bitch!" The stranger pulls a gun on Sam angrily, "You are never killing anyone ever again!"

Sam freezes. Suddenly it all comes back: writing the note to himself, running away... 'I can't give you fake memories but I can suppress real ones for a while.'

Lucifer pops into existence again, laughing and clapping. "Wow... you really are one clueless son of a bitch."

The realization that he is royally screwed both inside his head and out almost drives Sam to his knees. A half dozen cops are out of the cars and pointing guns at him now. A few have tasers, but then he notices their black eyes.

Demons, Sam is almost relieved. But why do they all look scared shitless?

"Get down on the ground with your hands on your head!" one of them shouts.

"Crowley told you assholes to lay off us!" Sam yells back and stands his ground. "Now fuck off before he shows up."

Lucifer laughs some more, then turns his own eyes black, "Aha, and they thought you were crazy before. They're not demons, Sam."

Sheriff Briar holds his gun steady and as much as he wants to silence Sam Winchester once and for all: he can't. The older brother-Dean-is still out there, and they might need the younger one alive to bring him in. But after meeting this guy, Briar can't help wondering how they've avoided the cops for so long, What is this psycho even talking about? He doesn't deny that he's terrified of said psycho, though: he's a giant.

"If you don't get on the ground now, we will shoot you!" Briar already told his guys not to, but the freak doesn't need to know that.

It doesn't look like Sam is listening though: he's not even looking at them. His eyes are locked somewhere on the building to Briar's left, chest heaving.

Normally, they would try and sweet talk someone as unbalanced as Sam into calming down, but he and his brother are mass murderers, and Briar doesn't really want to play nice. So, he grabs cuffs and a taser from a shaking deputy and approaches Sam slowly. The Winchesters have a scary reputation, and he doesn't blame his guys for not wanting to get close to one.

"Don't do anything stupid, Sam," Briar barks, just in case he is actually listening.

At the sound of his name, Sam looks at Briar with the most heart-wrenching expression he has ever seen, and the sheriff almost feels bad, How does he do that?

Then suddenly, Sam pulls his arm away from an imaginary force and yelps. That's when a deputy twitches and accidentally shoots him.

Briar is furious, Dammit, who's the trigger-happy moron?

Luckily, it's not a fatal hit to Sam's right shoulder and Briar expects him to drop; however, he only stumbles back and rolls with the momentum to turn and pelt down the alley.

"Hold fire!" Briar's heart jumps. He can't kill Sam, but he certainly can't let him go either. Deciding it's worth the risk, the sheriff aims his own gun carefully, and pulls the trigger.

On the second shot, Sam goes down. The bullet goes straight through his left calf and he trips. But then he's somehow up again, and running on a leg that has to be severely crippled. Can he not feel pain or something? Briar starts after him and his deputies finally grow some balls and give chase too. "Don't shoot him again!" he yells.

Despite two bullet wounds and a psychotic break, it takes a minute to catch Sam as he stumbles through the alley. And it still takes a taser to drop him for good and cuff his hands behind his back.

"DEAN!" Sam cries as he lies facedown, panting and desperately trying to rip his arms free of the cuffs. His muscles still aren't cooperating after the damned taser.

People are talking above him, but Sam can't focus on the words through his panic. He pretty much knows where he's headed: a maximum security padded room... alone with Lucifer. He doesn't have to imagine what that would be like. It was so stupid to lie to Dean and pretend he was okay... and why the hell didn't he stay in the room? Dean is Stone #1, remember? Why didn't I just phone him!?

Eventually, some of the feet in his line of sight start heading back down the alley, and a measure of control returns to his limbs. He can probably take out the remaining cops even in his current state, but only if he gets the cuffs off... and avoids getting shocked again...

With no lock picks in reach, Sam wrenches at his bindings and skin peels easily off his wrists. He can feel fresh blood dripping into the back of his shirt and coating the cuffs, making it easier to slide them off. His shredded shoulder burns in protest and drenches the cement beneath him, but he doesn't stop: he can't stop. He can't get locked away from Dean. Besides, this pain is a candle to the inferno of Hell.

Sam realized earlier that at any time, Lucifer can take away his memory of the warehouse: his anchor to reality. Dean brought him back from Hell in that warehouse by convincing him he really was out of the Cage. Without that memory... It will be like I never left, Sam thinks, horrified. But if Dean brought him back once, (more like twice) he has to believe he can do it again. That small hope has him more than prepared to skin his hands and tear his shoulder apart trying to get back to his big brother.

Before Sam can get too far though, someone is shouting and a knee is driven into his back. All of the air in his lungs is forced out and he's reduced to heaving into the filthy alley pavement. No no no... I have to get back to the motel... I have to talk to Dean...

The asshole cops roll him over, start wrapping his wrists tightly in a long cord, and put pressure on his gushing wounds. He is too winded to pull away when the lying old bastard goes through his pockets and pulls out his phone. All Sam manages in protest is a weak, "Fuck off!" and that gets ignored.

He closes his eyes and feels tears threaten again when he finally makes out what's being said over him, "Okay, fellas. We can assume his brother is nearby from what I've heard of their codependency. We might not have long before he realizes what happened..."

LATER THURSDAY NIGHT

Dean twirls his machete contentedly as red blood drips off the blade. So, it was just a shifter. Good call, little brother. He then flips open his ringing phone to share this discovery as he bags the shifter head: no need for Trish to see her own dead face when she comes home.

"Dean?" a male voice asks hesitantly.

"Hey, Sammy. Perfect timing. Just cut that bitch's..." Dean trails off quickly. Not Sammy. "Who the hell is this?" he growls as his mood turns murderous instantly, "And how did you get that phone?"

"Oh... Umm..." -the guy seems to take a second to collect himself- "I've got this guy named Sam here having a panic attack or something. He keeps asking for a 'Dean' so I'm using his phone to try calling him. Are you Dean?"

Dean's gut plummets. Sam can't crack... not now.... He puts a new adrenaline rush to use and starts moving. "Put him on the phone. Now."

The guy hesitates. "Umm... I can't. He passed out. Are you going to come get him?"

"Yeah. Where are you?" Dean is already back in the shitty car of the week-a puke brown and ancient volvo-and gunning the engine with a bagged head in the passenger's seat.

"Algona. Corner of College and St. Jones. On a bench. You close?" The guy doesn't sound relieved.

"Yeah, probably. Don't touch him. Let him sleep, he's... got insomnia," Dean finishes lamely and hangs up. He drives with half a mind on the road and the other half on typing the street names into his phone's GPS.

Briar felt sick after snapping the phone shut. 'Hey, Sammy. Perfect timing. Just cut that bitch's...' The sheriff honestly doesn't know how he followed through with the script after that little greeting: they were just as sadistic as he thought they were. He was in the middle of carving some poor girl! And the way he said it so cheerfully... like he knew Sam would be pleased to hear about it...

Briar is going to catch this fucker if it is the last thing he does. He goes over and over the ambush in his head, praying to God none of his guys get killed.

Dean face-palms over his mistake, Probably best I don't talk about a kill over the phone... Hopefully the guy didn't hear him.

Moving on to the more pressing issue, Dammit Sam... I told you to stay in the room... But he's not mad at Sam: how could he be? It's not his fault he's cracking under the strain of all those memories. Dean groans and wants to break something: beheading one monster just doesn't cut it anymore.

The dude sure sounded sketchy though... Way too nervous, Dean reflects. And since when do we catch a break with a good samaritan? The more he thinks about it, the more weirded out he gets. He said Sam was passed out... That also sounds too good to be true. Dean drags a hand through his hair and makes the snap decision to check the motel first: just in case this is some lame trap and Sam actually did as he was told for once.

Dean barely has the car in park outside the motel before he's scrambling outside. Their room's door isn't even closed properly.

"Sam!" Dean charges in. No Sam. He takes a quick mental picture. Not much moved since he left: salt lines still not up, bags still packed, beds untouched. Sam wasn't here long then.

Dean steps over to the desk, noticing some papers and pens scattered on the floor, and wakes up the laptop. A page entitled, 'Effects of Extended Sleep Deprivation,' greets him. It's scrolled down to, 'After 5 Days...'

Dean groans and gets back to the car as fast as he can. So Sam really hasn't slept at all since we dealt with Jeffrey in Idaho? Shit! Suddenly Sam's freak out is a lot more understandable.

Dean takes a steadying breath as he pushes the crappiest car ever past its limit, and a thought occurs to him, The dude on the phone says Sam was sleeping... If Lucifer hasn't let him sleep at all for 5 days, why would he let him pass out now? The symptoms of sleep deprivation get a lot more awful past day 5... Satan himself wouldn't stop there.

So the ass-hat on the phone was lying and this is some kind of trap.

Now Dean is pissed: something has Sam. He should have realized it as soon as a stranger used his phone, I really need to stop it with the optimism.

After a few minutes of driving, Dean parks on the street a block away from where Sam is supposed to be. He doesn't know what to expect exactly, but he's sure as shit that Sam's not there. Still, springing the trap is the fastest way to figure out what they're dealing with, and he might be able to kill something: always a plus.

Dean gets out of the car and grabs the basics. He slings his rock-salt-loaded-pistol-grip-double-barreled shotgun and small jug of borax'd holy water over his shoulder, nestles his machete in his coat, slides Ruby's knife in the back of his jeans and keeps the .45 mm loaded with silver bullets in hand.

He quietly makes his way down a pitch black driveway that pops out next to the Jones and College intersection. The whole street is almost silent but for a few voices coming around the corner of the building to his right. Gotta love small towns, Dean thinks as he presses his back against the left building to look at the source of the noise while staying partially in the shadows.

Beneath a street lamp, 3 guys are staging a loud conversation about football next to a bench where another man-with shaggy brown hair and dressed in plaid-appears to be sleeping.

If the situation were less serious, Dean may have laughed. The group is about a stone's throw away and the guy on the bench has his back to him, yet Dean can still tell it's not Sam: he's not massive enough. Sammy wouldn't even fit on that bench. But Dean doesn't laugh: the impostor is wearing Sam's plaid shirt and there are flecks of poorly washed out blood all over it, and Sam is missing.

Dean's anger threatens to boil over and it's only by sheer force of will that he doesn't run out and shoot them all on the spot. Instead, he takes a quick look around the left corner to see if anyone else is around, and his precaution is rewarded.

Another guy is leaning against the front of the neighbouring building, less than 6 feet from the driveway mouth and from Dean. He's biting his lip and looking nervously in all the wrong places.

Dean shrinks back a bit, glad he stayed put, and takes a good look at him. He's small, young, blonde, and dressed in normal clothes, but Dean can tell he's packing something by the way he keeps twitching his right hand in a bulky coat pocket.

Dean glances back at the noisy group and makes up his mind. He pockets the gun, keeps his eyes on the 3 guys talking, and waits for their backs to turn on him. After a minute or so they do, and he takes his chance.

The hunter charges on silent feet around the corner and grabs the oblivious blonde's right wrist, twisting it behind his back, and Dean uses his inner elbow to tightly cover his mouth and nose to muffle the scream.

The kid doesn't even struggle all that well as Dean hurriedly lifts his dragging, noisy feet off the ground and carries him back down the driveway a safe distance for a chat.

"I'm going to let you breathe now. You try to scream again and you're dead," Dean promises as he removes his arm and slams the scrawny guy face first into the wall.

The kid gasps for air and starts shaking, but stays relatively quiet.

Dean takes that as a good sign and starts testing immediately, positive this thing is just playing him. He checks the guy's skin where his silver ring would have burned him: nothing. He grabs the jug and splashes borax and holy water in the kid's petrified face: nothing. Shit.

"What the Hell are you?" Dean growls into his ear.

"Uh... Evan... Evan Baker!" the kid chokes with tears leaking out now.

Dean slices 'Evan's' palm with Ruby's knife, and is annoyed to see human blood. "I asked what you are, I don't want to know your fucking name!"

Now the kid is crying in earnest. He lets out great heaving sobs, but at least he bothers to keep his voice down as he says, "Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please don't kill me!"

Dean starts rifling through pockets and finds a bulky walkie-talkie with earbuds hooked up to the kid's left ear, hand cuffs, a gun, and ID for a 'Deputy Evan Baker...'

Dean feels real fear build for the first time."You're... a cop...?"

Evan seems to lose his ability to stand on his own, and Dean-too shocked to move-lets him puddle to the ground.

Sam was taken by the police.

Panic sets Dean's brain into overdrive, FUCK! I can't kill cops... They know I'm here... Sam's probably too screwed up to escape on his own... SWAT is undoubtedly on the way... We are so royally FUCKED.

Dean unconsciously backs up, staring at the deputy cowering before him, and glances at the walkie-talkie in his hand. Thank God he didn't have the balls to use it this whole time...

Dean mentally shakes himself back to action and decides it's time to get the hell away from the area: the kid could have missed a check in by now. He slaps the hand cuffs on Evan's ankles, strips the gun and snags the earbuds; shoving one in as he runs as quietly as he can from the police set up.

Dean hears a voice sputtering over the line, "-ive me something! Where is Baker!" It's scratchy, but Dean recognizes it all the same: it's the fucker who phoned him earlier.

Now there's a cop I might end up killing, Dean thinks furiously.

Evan seems to have regained a little composure at this point, and now he's yelling at the top of his lungs, "Help! Help! He's here!"

The walkie goes nuts, "Cover's blown, get that block surrounded! Collins, Barry, head up Jones! Harris, he's coming at you!"

Dean is almost to the next street when guns start going off behind him. Guess they don't care about catching me alive...

He rounds the corner and plows straight into an officer. Harris, he guesses, and the impact knocks them both to the ground. Caught completely off guard, the cop barely lifts himself up before Dean knocks him out with a well placed kick to the head on his way by: there's no time for chivalry.

Not bothering to be quiet anymore, Dean's feet slap the pavement as he sprints back to his car, but he's too late: two more armed officers appear between him and the volvo, and he has no choice but to try to lose them on foot.

"Baker is down and his walkie was stolen," a new voice crosses the line.

"Shit! You listening Dean? Come in quietly and we'll let you see Sam."

"Yeah, sure you will," Dean scoffs into the radio as he shucks the heavy jug off his shoulder and veers left across the street. "You really expect me to take your word for it after this little stunt?"

"Listen here you sick fu-" Dean promptly crushes the walkie in his fist and tosses it: they weren't going to say anything important now anyway.

"Freeze, Winchester!" a voice shouts far enough away that Dean feels safe ignoring it.

He quickly finds himself in suburbia and decides fence-hopping is his best bet. He jumps fence after fence and crosses at least three roads before feeling confident he's lost his tail.

Panting, Dean slumps against somebody's back deck. He can't stop for long though: he needs to get back to the motel and hide all their stuff before the cops find it. Good thing I didn't leave anything important in that piece of shit car. Except for... Oh fuck...

After a short breather, Dean is back to his feet and running again; albeit a lot slower than earlier. He pulls out his phone and regrettably snaps it in half, tossing the pieces in a bush. Cops are probably trying to trace it... Or they sent the number to the FBI and they're definitely tracing it.

Frank's precautions really get on Dean's nerves: he would hot-wire himself a new car, but he can't risk setting off an alarm with the cops so far up his ass. Wanted again... Awesome.

It takes Dean a good fifteen minutes to get back to the motel, but he still beats the cops. There probably aren't many officers in a town this size anyway, and he's sure that's the reason he hasn't been caught yet.

Grateful for the fact they hadn't unpacked much, Dean gathers their things after a few quick Google searches into the town's law enforcement, and is out of there in no time.

He scratches his head absently as he walks down the empty street. Now, where to go...

He wants to break into the Sheriff's Department and find Sam, but then he remembers Sam's shirt on the impostor, It had bloodstains all over it, and those certainly weren't there last I saw him... He might be at the hospital. The thought has Dean ready to explode: Sam is undoubtedly out of his mind with fear and exhaustion, strapped to a hospital table and getting mind-fucked by Satan while people poke at him. How did our lives become... this!?

Taking a deep breath in the night air, Dean bites back his frustration and tries to figure out what to do. He knows he can't just rush in without planning first, but Sam is suffering.

Hospital doctors and most cops are generally not complete assholes. Maybe they would actually be able to help if they knew what was wrong... Dean frowns. Yeah right... They all think we're emotionless monsters, and the idea of asking someone else to help Sam because he can't has him wanting to stab someone. At least I don't have to ask nicely... The world does think I'm a mass murderer after all...

After breaking into a foreclosed house just down the street from the motel, Dean stuffs their bags in some kitchen cupboards and slides to the grimy tile floor, utterly exhausted.

I could try some kind of hostage exchange... But he quickly dismisses the thought. There would be no escaping and the whole thing would take too much time: he doesn't have time...

Releasing a sigh and putting his game face on, Dean pulls out one of his many back up phones to call Sam.

The same guy as before picks up, "Ready to come in, Dean?"

"Not quite yet. You know, I'd really like to call you something besides 'Deceptive Asshole Cop,' you got a name?" Dean mentally pats himself on the back, zing!

"You can just call me 'sir' I'd rather a sicko like you didn't know my name. You understand."

"Yeah I understand, Phil Briar; but it doesn't take much for a sicko like me to Google the name of a town's sheriff these days. How's your sister? Still at 42 East Lucas?" Dean purrs into the phone.

He lets himself grin, Playing the bad guy is fun. Who knew? He's not even going to bother acting innocent anymore. The whole world has footage of Sam and him slaughtering a diner full of people and winking for the camera. There will be no plea of not-guilty for the Winchesters.

There's a pause on the line, then the sheriff sputters, "Why are you c-calling me? Where are you?" He sounds like he's having a coronary.

"Relax. I'm not at your sister's. Don't be so dramatic,"-Dean pauses for effect-"But, I could be..."

"There are officers on their way to get her right now. You won't touch her," the sheriff replies a little more confidently.

"Maybe not..." Dean reasons, "But your resources are limited, and you got a whole town of people to keep safe. And trust me when I say, they're not safe, Phil. Not at all... Did you find our car yet?"

Briar hesitates, then seems to chew on his words before spitting them out, "Yes... and you are so screwed you don't even-"

Dean interrupts, "Oh, good then you got my gift. Remember, until your help shows, every person in this ugly hick town of yours is my hostage... Think about that. I'll be calling again in a few minutes to talk to Sam. I suggest you drop the attitude by then."

Dean hangs up and checks the call time: 1 minute and 46 seconds. Is that long enough for a trace? Dean wishes he could remember if Frank talked about it. Or would they be able to trace the phone with just a number? Good thing we don't put all these back up phones in our contact lists, he thinks as he smashes Phone #2 to pieces.

Thinking over the conversation, Dean feels a little bad. He no doubt scared the bejesus out of the cops when they found the volvo: there was a shifter's head in the guise of a sweet older lady bagged in the front seat. The sheriff probably knows Trish too... But then Dean thinks of Sam's current Hell and he doesn't feel bad anymore. Good. Now he seriously thinks I'm gonna start dropping bodies.

Dean takes a long swig out of Bobby's flask, picks out another spare cell phone, and walks outside.