Author Notes: I made the first notes for this chapter back on January 13, which makes it beyond absurd that it took so long to get it together. It's been a weird year! I will say that when I finally buckled down and started making my brain put these scenes into words a month ago, the chapter came together. Many apologies for the loooooooong wait, and many more appreciations to those who've hung around for the update! I'm going to get to work on the next (possibly final?) chapter ASAP.


Part V

Morning arrives with all the subtlety of a freight train. Sam jolts upright in a cold sweat, his skin clammy and heart trip-hammering like he's just woken from some hellscape nightmare. But he hasn't, can't remember a thing from last night's dreaming. He'd fallen asleep easily and deeply, lulled into much-needed rest by the sense of peace that has overtaken the bunker. Peace brought on from having his family together, and whole. Everything out in the open now, no lingering secrets poisoning the spaces between them.

But now, dread fills Sam's chest, and he can't help feeling that something on the periphery, just out of eyeshot, isn't quite right.

Sam swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and surveys the dim room, searching for anything out of place. Something to explain this cold pit in his gut. The items in his room are just as he left them last night. Folded washcloth lying against the rim of the small sink. Chair squared up to the desk, the button-down shirt and jeans he'd worn yesterday draped over the back. Nothing jumps out at him.

It hits him then—he knows this feeling, has felt it before. This is the same feeling Sam gets right before his brother does something stupid and, most likely, self-destructive.

Sam wants to put eyes on Dean, right now. He lurches to his feet and throws open the door, races down the hall toward his brother's room. He has one hand splayed against the wood and the other wrapped around the knob before he gives himself a mental shake. He doesn't need to see Dean to know he's okay; Sam can hear for himself from here in the hall that his brother is fine from the steady snoring coming from inside the room.

Dean's not doing anything stupid; he's sleeping. On the other side of this door is a brother as safe as he can be with an archangel shacking up in the penthouse. Sam feels settled but not entirely satisfied, and quickly weighs how badly he wants to check on Dean against how seriously his brother needs this rest.

There was never really a choice.

Sam thumps a light fist against the door, then turns back toward his own room. He's fine, he tells himself. But after Sam has showered and dressed and is contemplating coffee, the bad feeling in his gut has not abated. Sam is intellectual enough to know the feeling might have nothing to do with Dean at all, might simply be his own guilty conscience finally rearing its head. Cas and Jack will be back sometime today, and while Sam would like to believe Castiel will go full-on fanboy in John Winchester's presence, he also knows that he's likely in for one hell of a reaming from the angel. A lecture in which he's raked over the coals for not thinking of the unintended consequences of using the Baozhu, the unseen fallout from Dad being yanked out of 2003 and dropped here. And he would—will—deserve every word of it. This may have been Dean's heart's desire, but it was Sam's idea. Sam's plan. A plan that fell into their laps like it was meant to be. In the end, despite the results, Sam can admit it was shoddily researched and executed.

He pushes his hands through his still-damp hair and sighs. He really needs some coffee.

No, he really needs to give Cas and Jack a heads-up about what—and who—exactly they're returning to. Sam checks his watch—this late in the morning, it's likely they're on the road already. He's too chickenshit to talk to Cas right now, chooses instead to buy some time to plan his words by texting Jack. He types out the message as he walks down the hallway.

See you guys soon. Have Cas call me when you stop.

Sam looks up as he presses 'send.' At first, he thinks the flannel-wearing figure propped in the hallway is Dean. Perhaps summoned by Sam's own thoughts, a manifestation of his obsessive subconscious. It wouldn't be the first time he caught his brother staring at his homemade tomb, leaning in the doorway with a sort of false casualness that twists Sam's stomach into knots. But it's Dad down the hall, standing too still with a mug in his hand. The only sign of the man's stress is the robotic way his thumb is worrying the edge of the porcelain.

He should have known Dad would want to see the Ma'lak box. Of all the information Sam unloaded on his father yesterday, in what can only charitably be called a conversation, the Ma'lak box may have, deservedly, struck John the hardest.

He learned of the figurative and literal hell his sons went through in his absence, but they were always pushing forward. Always fighting, the way he raised them. Knowing that Dean had so recently felt backed into a corner with no way out, and might still feel that way, was almost too much for him.

Hearing as much, Dad had dragged a hand over his mouth as the color leeched from his face. When he finally spoke, it took obvious force to get the words out. "He gave up?"

"He did," Sam had confirmed, quickly raising a placating hand before Dad had a chance to come out of his chair. "Michael had him scared. Dean didn't think he was strong enough to hold him off."

Using the past tense as though it's not an ongoing concern. Like Sam doesn't still feel the exact anxiety his father is as he hears this. This mix of fear and guilt. He's the one forcing his brother to remain in this state, archangel stuck in his head, kept there by sheer force of will. A show of strength on Dean's part that grows weaker every day. As far as Sam knows, they're only prolonging the inevitable.

Sam wakes every morning terrified that he's going to find Dean gone again. For good, this time.

Despite his attempt to put his father at ease, all of this played out across Sam's face. And John Winchester, of course, could see right through him.

"He still has the box," Dad had said, no question in his tone. Mom had sucked in a breath, and her fingers tightened on his arm.

Sam nodded, his throat catching before he could force out a hoarse, "Yeah."

Now, Sam tucks his cell phone back into his pocket. Dad's gaze ticks over, a silent acknowledgement that Sam has joined him in the doorway. Father and son stand silently, staring at a supernaturally reinforced coffin. One built with steady, determined hands.

"I hate this goddamned thing," Sam finally says in a low voice. "More than I've ever hated anything."

Dad shifts his weight, sniffs in acknowledgement.

"I hate that it's here," Sam continues. "That he thinks he might…" He bites down on his lip to keep the words inside, unwilling to manifest the worst-case scenario.

The very presence of the Ma'lak box signals the inevitability of his failure. That this is a temporary state. That he will fail, and will, eventually, lose Dean to Michael.

"It won't come to this, Sam," Dad says, like he knows what Sam is thinking. "I can't…we won't allow it to come to this."

Dad's using The Tone. The one that used to push all of Sam's buttons, that could make him see red. This tone does not allow for doubt and does not invite argument. But right now, the man's no-nonsense confidence is a booster shot to Sam's faith in them all. That they will, if not defeat Michael, then help Dean outlast the son of a bitch.

"I'm really glad you're here, Dad."

Dad's smile says more than any words could. He lifts his mug to his lips and drains the last of his coffee as he turns away, patting Sam's shoulder as he passes.

"Smells like your mom's got breakfast on."

Sam gets a whiff of something smoky and spicy coming from the direction of the kitchen. He tears his gaze away from the Ma'lak box, stomach grumbling. "Yeah, it does. I'll be there in a minute. Just need to take care of a couple of things."

Dad nods, his thumbnail once more worrying the side of his cup. "Bring your brother with you."

The rest goes unspoken but understood: Dean doesn't need to isolate himself, doesn't need to be holed up in his room.

Sam watches his father disappear around the corner, then pulls his phone from his jeans pocket. There are other hunter groups to check in with. When the screen lights up, he frowns at it.

Message not delivered.

He opens the text thread and taps to resend his message to Jack. Immediately, a red icon appears.

Message not delivered.

Sam sees then that, except for the message he typed this morning, the thread is empty. Not just empty—nonexistent. There is no history of texts exchanged with the number of the cell phone Sam gave Jack.

With an uneasy twist in his gut, Sam taps the screen to call the number. There isn't even the courtesy of a single ring before he hears, "The number you are trying to reach is not in service."

"What the hell?" Sam mutters. But deep down, he knows this is exactly what he was waiting for. The other shoe. The unintended consequences of his actions.


He can't move, can barely breathe. The surface is far above, seemingly miles away. From here, it appears as a grayish glint at the top of his periphery, less a promise of air and escape than a tease.

Look familiar, Dean?

The water presses down, a crushing weight keeping him deeply submerged. Darkness surrounds him, but he knows he's standing at the precipice of an even deeper chasm. A drop from which there will be no return.

You're not going anywhere.

It makes no difference that Deans knows this is a dream. The anxiety and helplessness flooding his senses are far too real, deeply rooted in a reality he can't forget. The ache in his chest from abused lungs straining for air. The voice goads him to take a step, to tip over the edge into the abyss.

You're going to lose this fight eventually anyway.

"Dean."

A new voice, faint but familiar, invades his subconscious.

Sammy can't save you.

"Hey. Wake up."

Daddy can't save you.

His eyes blow open, head snapping back. Sam's face is inches from his own, his brother's hands clutching his shoulders and shaking him awake.

Through the fog surrounding his mind and the sensation of his madly beating heart, Dean has the presence of mind to get an arm up and shove his brother away.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean's blurry gaze darts between his brother and the open door of his room. There isn't much in the way of privacy in their life, but a closed door is supposed to mean something. Especially these days, with Sam's Merry Band of Hunters roaming the bunker halls.

Sam gets the message and backs up a step, his hands held up. A wrinkle of worry bisects his brow. "I knocked. I swear."

Dean rolls his eyes and heaves himself into a seated position. There's a concerning lag of responsiveness from his limbs, which feel disconnected, heavy and numb.

"I knocked, Dean."

Dean blinks up at his brother. "Yeah, you said. So, where's the fire?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, Dean. I knocked, and then I came all the way in to…and you didn't—you didn't hear me?"

Dean's been sleeping even lighter than usual since Michael took up residence, for obvious reasons. Sam shouldn't have been able to make it all the way to his bed—shouldn't have even been able to knock on the door—without waking him.

Not unless he was stuck under. Pinned under.

Michael's taunts from his dream echo through his mind. Maybe they were a little more tied to reality than he'd like to admit.

Sam stares down at him, and Dean fidgets under the weight and accusation of his brother's scrutiny. "I heard you," he says. He throws a hand toward Sam. "What's going on?"

He's still working to dislodge the last remnants of his dream while Sam fills him in, raking his fingers through his hair as though he can drag away the remaining images and sensations.

"Okay," Dean says, more to silence his rambling brother than from any kind of comprehension. His head is aching, a dull exhausted pulse at the base of his skull. Sam has a lot of nerve barging in empty-handed when he'd literally kill for a cup of coffee, and he's pretty sure that's bacon he smells wafting from the kitchen.

Sam blinks. "Okay?"

"Yeah, you can't get a hold of Cas or Jack. I get it. It's weird."

"It's weird? Dean, I'm telling you—it's like their phone numbers don't even exist. There is no record of any calls or texts from either of them in my phone. Probably not yours. I even tried praying to Castiel." Sam chops a hand through the air. "Nothing."

There's no denying the flutter of unease in his chest. His fingers twitch in the direction of where his own cell lies on the bedside table, wanting to prove his brother wrong. But he's worried he'll only prove Sam right. He shakes his head. "He's ignored us before."

Sam plants his hands on his hips. "Not like this. This feels different. Truthfully, something hasn't felt right since—"

"Since when, Sam?" Dean can't keep the snap from his voice. He dares his brother to walk this one back, to make the shift from treating Dad's appearance as the greatest thing to have happened, to something they never should have done.

Sam chews the inside of his cheek. When he next speaks, his voice is quiet, and his gaze is pinned on the hallway beyond the door. "I'm just saying, Dean. These are obviously unnatural circumstances."

Dean breathes out, runs another hand down his face. "Okay, I hear you. But don't you think you're jumping the gun here?" He glances at his watch. "I mean, are they even overdue yet?"

"Not for a few hours." Sam sighs. "But I just have this…bad feeling."

Sam having a bad feeling ain't nothing, and it's a good indicator that something is truly amiss. "Okay," Dean says. "And your Spidey-sense is telling you, what? That something serious has happened to Cas and Jack and it's connected to Dad being here?"

Sam lifts a shoulder, won't look him in the eyes. He obviously doesn't want to be telling Dean this any more than Dean wants to hear it. "It would be a hell of a coincidence otherwise."

He's seen too much to believe in coincidence—they both have.

"Hey," Sam says, drawing his attention upward. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out," his brother tells him. Now, his gaze is glued to Dean's face, and his tone is almost pleading. His expression has taken on that handling-fragile-goods look, like Dean is a landmine set to detonate with one wrong word.

Dean nods but doesn't trust himself to respond. Sammy has been wearing this young, puppy-eyed look ever since he and Dad had their Big Moment, but according to that damned pearl Dad is what Dean supposedly desires, if not needs, more than anything right now. Even more than Michael out of his head.

Or maybe this was just the supernatural world's way of letting him know that's not going to happen.

In any case, every step that's gotten them to this moment is because of Dean. He's the one who let Michael in, twice. He's the one who caved to his little brother's pleas. He's the one who was holding the pearl.

And because of all this, Dean knows that whatever happens—whatever may already be happening—Sam is going to let this be his call.

God, is he really thinking about this already? Are they really talking about it? Dad has only been here days.

And yet, that flutter of unease has unfurled in his gut, spreading a familiar weight of dread through his body.

Through the open door, Dean can hear the sound of his parents' laughter down the hall. They can't possibly be speaking, even hypothetically, of ruining this.

As a familiar ringing starts up in his ears, Dean digs his fingers into his thigh. He needs to clear his head, to unmuddy his thoughts, and get some fresh air into his lungs.

Sam frowns. "What are you thinking?"

It's nine in the morning, but that's never stopped him before. "I'm thinking we don't have anywhere near enough alcohol for this conversation."

Really, Dean's thinking there's a reason he's been keeping Dad at arm's length. He always knew this was too good to be true. As real as a dream, disappearing in a wisp. Dad standing over him, smiling, hand on his shoulder.

Why don't you let this family take care of you for a change?

It's not possible, not for him. It never was.

It never will be.


Talking to Dean didn't make him feel any better. Throughout the morning, the dread in Sam's chest has evolved from a hovering storm cloud to an itch burrowed beneath his skin. Something crying out for attention, for relief, that he can't quite reach. This is more than Castiel and Jack being out of range. This is bigger. There are tendrils of wrongness spreading like an infection. He just knows.

On the way out of town, Sam silently scrolls the internet for symptoms that this wrongness that is likely his own doing. It's not as though Dean seems to be craving any conversation. His brother sits quiet and stiff as he drives, his fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel, out of time with the music that plays unusually quietly. Sam thinks of Mom and Dad watching with quizzical looks as they made excuses for going into town.

"They know something's wrong," he says, gaze pinned to the screen of his phone.

"Sam, we don't know something is wrong."

But by the time Dean pulls the Impala to the curb across from the liquor store, Sam does know. He bites his lip. "There's some really weird stuff happening online, Dean."

Dean throws the car into 'park' like it's done something to offend him. "Which is different from any other day how, exactly?"

Sam releases a bark of nearly hysterical laughter. "Well, I'd call this different," he says, turning his cell phone for his brother to see what he's found.

Even though he's watched the video with captions, he's not quite prepared to hear his voice streaming from the phone's small speakers, pompous and haughty. He winces, watches his brother's face as Dean takes this in.

"Truth is—and this is hard to hear—performing at your best requires all of your mental energy. Every last drop. You see, it's just not compatible with something like hobbies, or even having a family."

Sam pulls the phone back and closes the video, his stomach twisting. "Okay. That's enough of that."

"No, no. I was learning." Dean's face is concerningly devoid of expression.

"Shut up. Do you believe me now? Messing with time changed things." He shakes his phone. "Things are changing."

Dean throws a hand toward Sam's cell phone. "Well, what about me?"

"I'm Googling you now." Sam tilts his head as an image fills the screen. "Okay, so you're wanted."

"Nice."

Sam sighs. "No, Dean. Not nice." He squints. "Um, wow."

"What?"

"Just, this is a lot of beheadings."

Dean nods. "Okay, so I'm still hunting, and you're internet famous." He makes a face. "Not to mention, seriously douchey. So, what, is there two of us running around here?"

Sam chews his lip. "I don't think so. I think maybe it's a temporal paradox."

"A what?"

He rotates on the seat to better face his brother. "We pulled Dad here from 2003, right? So, time is self-correcting. Our timeline is becoming this new one."

Dean's fingers tap the wheel. "So, what happens now?"

"I think if we don't fix this, then we become those other versions of ourselves." Sam lifts a shoulder. "Like, for real."

"Fix this," Dean echoes in a hollow tone. "You mean send Dad back."

Sam swallows, doesn't respond. He looks out the windshield and watches as residents of Lebanon go about their day. A group of kids is hanging at the corner; Sam recognizes them from the house where they got the damned Baozhu that started this whole thing.

"We should get back," he finally says. "Tell…talk to Mom and Dad."

Dean's fingers flex around the steering wheel. Wordlessly, his hand moves to rip the keys from the ignition. He flings open the door and sticks a boot on the blacktop.

"Dean, where are you—"

"We drove all this way, and you're talking about—" Dean slams the door shut and pockets the keys. "We're at least gonna have something decent to toast the man. We can do that much."

Sam sighs as he watches his brother stalk across the street without checking for traffic. He opens his own door and steps quickly to catch up to Dean as he enters the liquor store.

Dean lifts his chin in greeting to the man behind the counter. "It's been one of those days already, Jackson. I need the good stuff."

Jackson frowns. "Uh, do I know you?"

Before Dean can reply, Sam whacks his arm and raises his eyebrows pointedly.

"Right." Dean sighs. "Guess not."

"We'll just browse," Sam tells the man, smiling politely and hopefully communicating that they're not at all crazy.

"Sure," Jackson says, drawing out the word, staring at them as Sam pushes his brother into an aisle.

"Browse?" Dean asks in a mocking tone.

"Just get what you want so we can—"

"So we can what, Sam?" his brother demands, his gaze flat yet intense. "Run home and tell Mom and Dad to say their goodbyes?"

Sam wishes it could be any other way. But if Jackson, a man who sees Dean multiple times a week, doesn't recognize him, then the changes to the timeline are already spreading. There is no better answer. Every minute that Dad remains here means even more will change. Until they don't even recognize themselves.

Dean tears his gaze away and moves to the next aisle, staring at the bottles of bourbon like they'll have a better answer.

There is no better answer.

Dread floods Sam's chest, an anxious flutter against his breastbone. The flutter intensifies, and he winces as a sharp pain strikes his ears.

Sam's eyes widen, and he meets Dean's gaze across the row of bottles between them. "You feel that?"

In response, Dean returns a bottle of whiskey to the shelf, his hand moving toward where his 1911 is concealed in his waistband. Before he can tug the gun free, he moves to cover his ears as a high-pitched ring bursts through the store.

Behind the counter, Jackson cries out. Dark blood leaks between the fingers pressed over his ears.

"Dean!" Sam calls. A warning. A reflex. Across the aisle, Dean's eyes are wide and searching, seeking out the approaching threat.

They both hit the deck when the bottles go first, small explosions that coat them in slivers of glass and sweet, sticky liquor.

Angels, Sam thinks, his heart beating madly. Angels coming in hard and fast. But why?

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters on the other side of the shelving. He hisses, glass crunching as he gets back to his feet.

Why not angels? Surely, they've screwed with rules and laws, bending time, bringing Dad here. Whoever it is, they mean business.

Sam grips the edge of a shelf, pushes up. It would really be nice to have Cas at their side right now.

The storefront windows bow in and then explode, showering the entire shop with glass bullets. Sam ducks as a half-dozen fiery starbursts erupt across his face and hands. The ringing abruptly stops, the resulting silence nearly as shocking.

"Dean?"

"Son of a bitch," is his brother's response.

Between the earsplitting ring and the imploding glass, Sam's senses are shot, so it takes a second longer than it should to recognize the two figures striding into the shop.

Castiel is a sight for sore eyes, but Zachariah's is one face Sam never thought he would have to see again. The sharp-nosed angel makes a show of straightening his tie.

"Okay. Who's been messing with time?"


To be continued...