-Summary: It's the end of the world and they've got one last card to play. Castiel sends Dean back: back before everything. Now he has time to stop what's coming, but no friggin' clue how to do it. Time travel should really come with a manual. TIMELINE AU

-Chapter Warnings: Bit of a longer chapter this time as we continue this drawn out hell of brotherly angst, Sam finally gets some things off his chest, and we finally get physical plot advancement along with all this verbal stuff! Oh, and Bobby's awesome. But then again, Bobby's always awesome.

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The Road So Far (this Time Around)

Chapter 25

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sam was furious. Not with John, not because of their dad stealing the Colt, sneaking off in the middle of the night like some criminal, and once more leaving them behind in a fight they had every right to be in. Sure, he was pissed about all of that, but that was John Winchester. That was predictable. No, Sam was furious and the cause was sitting across from him at Bobby Singer's kitchen table, nursing a beer at four in the morning like he had nothing better to do.

"I can't believe you!" the younger Winchester yelled, tossing his arms to the side. "Dad stole the damn Colt, Dean. He's going after Yellow Eyes and, according to you, it's going to get him dead. We need to go after him!"

Dean spared his brother a rather scathing look, given that Sam was the one clearly making sense here and Dean was the one sitting on his butt doing absolutely nothing. The brunette dropped his arms back to his sides, staring at his brother in disbelief.

Sometimes, he really didn't know this man. If you'd asked him six months ago if his brother would ever change, he'd have laughed the question off because the honest to God answer was no. Winchester men didn't change.

But the cold, broken man sitting in Bobby's kitchen across from him, refusing to save his own father, was so foreign to Sam that he found himself once more questioning if he knew him at all.

"What do you want me to do, Sam?" Dean countered, green eyes refusing to look up at the sasquatch towering over him. "Dad's gonna throw himself at this no matter what we do."

"Then we stop him!"

"It can't be stopped!" Dean leaned forward almost violently, eyes ablaze as he stared at his brother and Sam immediately realized they weren't just talking about John Winchester any more.

He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "What's coming that you're so afraid of, Dean?"

His brother shoved back into his chair, once more looking away like a child put in timeout. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Bobby, leaning against the far wall of the kitchen and so far staying out of the sibling spat, cleared his throat and gave the older Winchester a pointed look. Dean ignored him, but Sam bounced his gaze between the two, brow furling.

The realization that Bobby knew hit him like a bag of bricks straight into his stomach, plummeting the vulnerable organ right to the floor and pulling the air from his lungs in the same go. He turned back almost slowly to Dean. He could feel the rage starting to build, not just from their dad and from Dean's refusal to do anything about it, but from the endless lies.

Dean, John, now Bobby. Was he the only person in this family unworthy of the truth?

"Are you going to tell the whole world what's going on with you before you tell me?" he shot at his brother. The flinch he got in return only furthered the anger coursing beneath his skin. He could practically feel it vibrating through his veins. It was a building buzz, a tingle through every muscle that reminded him of facing the Baku in that nightmare dream. He felt the swell of pressure through his sinuses before the blood filled his nasal cavity, a steady stream that pooled just above his lip.

Dean was up and out of his chair, the scraping of wood across linoleum suddenly the loudest thing in the tense room. Sam swiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing away the result of what flowed just beneath the surface. He looked back up at his brother, who stood across the table from him, looking more helpless than Sam had ever seen him.

The bitter smile that pulled at his lips was as full of self-loathing as it was anger. Sam held up his hands, the one still smeared with red.

"I'm done." He shook his head and took a step back. "I'm done."

The youngest Winchester spun out of the kitchen, grabbing his jacket off of Bobby's couch as he headed for the front door. Dean was already following, calling after him.

"Where are you going?" he hollered, his concern coming through as abrasive as ever as Sam wrenched open the door.

"I'm going to stop dad or I'm going to help him kill that damn thing. Like you should be doing! " the younger answered automatically, one hand on the knob as he regarded his brother incredulously. He threw his arm out to the side, jacket flapping in the motion. "And after that? I don't know. I just don't know anymore, Dean. Maybe I'll take my life back, go back to school, marry Jess."

The silence that followed his declaration was answer enough as to what Dean thought of that idea. To what the man supposedly from the future knew would never happen. Sam dropped his arms, so damn tired of waiting for his brother to trust him.

"Yellow Eyes said you had to keep hunting," Dean muttered, a lackluster comeback for any Winchester.

Sam scoffed, that bitter smile finding his lips. He turned back through the door, not bothering to face his brother as he called back, "Yeah, but he didn't say it had to be with you."

He left the door open as he jaunted down the steps and across the yard. Dean could close it or follow after, maybe throw a punch or try to stop him. At this point, he really didn't care.

-o-o-o-

Dean watched his kid brother disappear into the stacks of cars, likely to find one still worth hotwiring, since the kid had walked right past the Impala. Sam knew better than to take off in Dean's car, though part of the older hunter might have preferred it. It would have been easier to follow after him, to fight him on this, if he'd given him a reason.

Because Dean knew he didn't have the high ground here. Sam was right, through and through. They should be going after John, stopping him from confronting Azazel, for so many reasons. This hadn't happened last time, so Dean didn't know what would come of it. John could get himself killed sooner, Azazel could get a hold of the Colt, could hold their dad hostage again. This wasn't part of the script, and Dean was barely holding on to his escalating blood pressure just thinking about it.

But he was also tired. Tired of fighting for his dad, who seemed as determined as Time itself to make sure he found an early grave. Dean had almost forgotten what it was like trying to talk to John Winchester, the brick wall variety of inflexible. He was tired of doing this alone, tired of lying to his brother, tired of having to police a timeline that had done him no favors, twice over now. And he was terrified for his brother. Terrified, with no idea where to start on fixing it.

"Give him some time," Bobby spoke beside him, the two still staring out the open front door into the yard. Headlights lit the far corner, and soon enough a car pulled onto the drive and headed out the gate.

Dean swallowed hard. "You saw his face, Bobby."

"Yeah, I did." The older hunter's perfectly calm tone was infuriating to the amped up man beside him. "But going after him won't do any good, and you know it. Give him time to cool off. He'll be back."

The older Winchester huffed. "Not if he catches Dad."

Bobby turned back into the house with a roll of his eyes at the kid's pigheadedness. Truth was, Dean was itching for a fight, for someone to vent all that pent up worry on. Bobby wasn't gonna give it to him. "You and I both know he won't. Yer Daddy's got at least a half hour head start. That might as well be a private jet. And Sam knows it."

Dean glanced at his friend before finally heeding him and closing the front door. When he followed Bobby into the kitchen, still glancing back towards the yard, the older hunter rolled his eyes, this time in full view of the intended audience.

"For Christ sake, boy, he wasn't wearing pants." Dean frowned slightly at the older man, who finally gave a hell of a shrug. "He's got all of a jacket and the boxers covering his ass. Pretty sure he'll figure that out about the time he runs out of gas."

Green eyes widened slightly, and the twitch at the corner of his lips told Bobby his job of comforting the damn baby was done. So he plopped himself down in the kitchen chair, reached over to the row of landlines and pulled out the legal pad from that morning. He tossed it onto the table, staring up expectantly at his kid.

"Now sit down and put the time to good use. You got a story to finish, ya idjit, and if I'm not getting sleep in my own house, then neither are you."

-o-o-o-

Sam realized his state of dress and lack of plan long before the gas gage ran low on his hotwired, stolen car. He didn't care. For weeks now, they'd been on the go, non-stop. Between Meg revealing herself to them in California, the Yellow Eyed Demon confronting him – saving him – in Nebraska, and fighting off the Baku, they had barely stopped to breathe or sleep as they crisscrossed the country. Yet, for weeks now, Sam felt stagnant. No closer to finding dad, no closer to ending this nightmare, no closer to getting the truth from his brother.

Even now, with so much of it to a head, it was like running face first into a concrete wall. He now had a pretty good idea what was going on with Dean, but nothing changed. His brother still didn't trust him, believe in him. Dean continued to lie straight to his face. Sam had given him every opportunity to just say it and he was out of reasons – done coming up with excuses – for why Dean couldn't tell him the truth.

They'd finally found their dad, even saved him. They had saved him. Their dad, always untouchable, invincible, had needed them and they'd been there. They'd made it, even when he refused to ask for their help. Again, nothing had changed. Sure, they'd had one of the most civil conversations of their relationship to date, but John had still left. He'd still gone behind their backs, refused to trust them to handle themselves as he'd raised them to. Once more, he'd left them behind.

Sam knew he'd never catch him. His dad was too good; the man barely needed a ten minute head start to disappear, and this morning he'd had far longer. They'd wasted precious time arguing about going after him.

The anger resurged, coursing through him almost to a boiling point. He could feel it filling every blood vessel, screaming to be released. To just punch something. To hurt something.

Of everything Dean had done over the past six months, this was the most infuriating of all. Perhaps because it was the least explainable for Sam. It didn't make any sense. Dean had all but said their dad was going to get himself killed, and Sam had less and less doubt about its validity. Yet his brother refused to go after him, to stop him?

Why? Was Dean Winchester really going to just let their dad die? Not for the first time, Sam wondered if he really knew this man that had taken over his brother's body and turned his life so utterly upside down.

Worse, he'd kept Sam from going after Dad while he could have made a difference. He could have caught him – could have at least had a chance – if he'd left right away. Now, he was out driving the darkened backroads of South Dakota for no reason. His 'search' was pointless, accept that it got him out of that house and away from his brother.

If it even was his brother anymore.

The boiling in his blood reached the tipping point, fed by the pain that lanced through him at the thought he couldn't take back. With a recklessness that could have gotten him killed, Sam wrench the car off to the shoulder, slamming on the breaks. He was out the door before the parking break fully engaged, pacing along the dirt and weeds that lined the backroad.

He could feel it building in him like a pressure gage. Like a shaken soda, and his brother was the damn bottle cap. With trembling fists, Sam spun back towards the car and let out a primal scream. Metal wrenched and screeched in tune with his cry. He threw out his hand and the driver door flew across the road with a shriek, clattering across the cement to careen into ditch on the other side.

It wasn't enough, though. He could still feel the bubbling in his blood, the anger coursing through him that needed release. So he tore at the car again and again; he ripped at the doors and dented the roof. He exploded windows and crushed the interior. When the airbag blew, he ripped that out a well, sending it off into the field along the highway with nothing more than his mind and his rage.

As the anger finally petered out and his adrenaline crashed into a hollow, empty pit in his chest, Sam sank onto the side of the road. Blood was flowing freely from his nose and his lungs were heaving, desperate for air that suddenly seemed in short supply.

The young hunter sat on his heels, gasping in the middle of the dark road, vision blurred by stinging eyes. He wipe the back of his hand across his face, erasing evidence of snot and tears and spit. When breathing became more manageable and his hands weren't shaking so badly he couldn't even grip his jacket, Sam looked back up. He stood in one fluid motion, brought to his feet by sudden shock of what he had done.

The car was unrecognizable. There was nothing left but a wrecked, mangled pile of metal that looked closer to a mechanical pancake than a vehicle. A shaky breath left him as realization hit tenfold and he lifted his fingers to his upper lip, caked with blood.

He'd done that. With his mind.

Sam stumbled back a step, staring in horror at the direct result of his loss of control and the new power flowing beneath his fingertips. His hands were shaking again. He swiped again at his nose, and then again and again in a desperate bid to rid himself of the proof. He spun away from the flattened car, pinching his nose until the flow finally slowed.

Was this what Yellow Eyes wanted? Was this why he had saved him, given him that blood? Sam stared at his hands, shaking and smeared with patches of red so dark in the early hours that the liquid almost looked black. The boy curled his fingers into loose fists, hiding them too.

"What am I?" he whispered to the empty road, as terrified of a response as he was of the silence he got in return. He tilted his head back to the heavens and screamed it to the sky. Maybe if he yelled it loudly enough, someone would answer him.

Was this why Dean sometimes looked at him like he was terrified for him – or maybe it was of him? Was that car and the blood on his hands the reason Dean wouldn't tell him the truth? Didn't trust him?

He glanced over his shoulder almost hesitantly at the vehicle as though it might come to life; the embodiment of his fear and uncontrollable rage. Maybe Dean wasn't the one in the wrong here, he thought. Because staring at that mangled, broken mess of thankfully lifeless material, Sam was no longer sure he trusted himself.

He hung his head in the silence that surrounded him. The wheat stalks rustled in the light breeze and the moon hung low in the sky, on its way back down for the day. Any other time, he would have called it peaceful. He would have called Jess, despite the early hour, and told her about the stars in the sky and the crickets on the wind.

Sam sniffed once, blinking away the water build up in his eyes and pulling the jacket tight around himself. A million would-haves wasn't going to change things, and he had a long walk ahead of him. He started past the car, back the way he'd come, but hesitated as his booted feet crunched on asphalt.

Hesitantly, he glanced at the metal wreck. He couldn't just leave it there. A gutted car that looked like it had gone through a compactor in the middle of nowhere Nebraska? Yeah, that was going to call some attention. Quite possibly of the hunter variety.

Sam stared at the chunk of metal and the corn field behind it, stomach twisting. Slowly, he raised one hand, fingers splayed. His entire arm trembled as he stared at the metal between his fingers. Nothing happened for several long moments. He knew, with no idea how he knew, that it was his fear holding him back.

With a deep swallow, he shoved that twisting knot in his gut down deeper, out of the way where he couldn't feel its hesitancy. He closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for that ever present vibration in his blood. And then he pushed.

The car screeched across the road terribly, sparks jutting up in its wake. It rocked and dragged at first, then went flying into the field beyond like a saucer from space. Sam released the power shuddering through his body as soon as the car was hidden among the stalks. He stumbled on the road, but managed to keep his feet and immediately checked his nose.

No blood.

He stared down at his hand, having no idea what that meant. He turned heel on the long road and started back the way he'd come, refusing to look at the field that hid the evidence of his very terrifying new ability.

-o-o-o-

"We have a problem."

Lilith looked up from the ancient scroll she was tracing a petite finger across, deciphering ink long faded by years on earth and now all but deteriorating in the heat and depths of Hell. But Azazel's tone booked little room for pause, so with a toss of black hair and pink ribbons, she sent the attending demons from the room and set aside the parchment detailing the creation of six hundred and sixty six seals.

Once he had her full attention and the promise of a private audience, Azazel tilted his head towards the demonic princess. "John Winchester has the Colt."

Any lingering sweetness painted across her pink cheeks by youth or innocence disappeared in a snarl far more reminiscent of her true face. Her eyes flashed pupil-less white, tinted red and orange by the ever flickering flames of Hell. "What? We've been searching for that wretched thing for decades! How the hell did that useless meatsuit stumble across it?"

Azazel paid her reverberating wrath little mind. He was the one who had neglected to mention the Winchester's primary means of negotiation six months prior, when they played their hand early to save one bitch out of thousands. The Prince of Hell had let that piece of information slide precisely for this reason. He had witnessed his fair share of temper tantrums by Lucifer's firstborn in the two decades since he'd managed to unearth her from the depths of the Pit. They still hadn't gotten her topside – that would take a Devil's Gate and no less. A demon of her age and power drew the denizens of hell behind her like flotsam caught in a wake. They'd plug up any hole they tried to squeeze her through well before she got close.

Luckily, they'd worked that into their plans long ago, and fate seemed only to be shining on them.

"It's in our favor, really," he offered, crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the rocky wall, the uneven surface sweltering hot as all things in the Pit were. "Without it, we were going to have to open one of the more troublesome gates. Now we can go straight for Cavalry Cemetery."

"Assuming we can get our hands on the Colt," she bit back.

He was surprised at her pessimism, really. Of all the head demons in on Hell's apocalypse plan, Lilith had maintained a steadfast and loyal optimism not common among their kind. But here she stood, worrying her lip between her baby teeth at the first real obstacle they'd hit, which they hadn't bothered ruling out as a possibility to begin with, and one that really would serve them better in the end.

"Do you think it could kill him?"

Ah, so she was worried about dear Daddy. Azazel shrugged. "I don't know. But it certainly can kill me or you, and ahead of schedule I might add. That's a bigger concern then hypotheticals."

Her eyes darted to the parchment, then back to him. She drew her shoulders back and thrust her chin out, which might have been cute on an actual eight-year old girl. "I want that gun, Azazel. It's time to take John Winchester."

Her command left no room for argument, though Azazel had none to give anyway. Heaven's gate remained shut and quiet. The Winchesters were falling into line without knowledge of their complicity. The appearance of the Colt was the final sign Azazel had been waiting for. It was time to get the wheels of Hell's apocalypse really turning.

-o-o-o-

The legal pad was almost full by the time the sun started its way back down, and that was only the apocalypse-based stuff. Dean still refused to bring up anything after, insisting that they wouldn't get there and if they did that he'd already written it down. He ignored Bobby's repeated looks at that point, and now stood at the back door, staring out into the yard.

"He'll come back, son. Give it time."

Dean shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder at the old hunter, sitting at the table, going back through the endless notes he'd written that day. He'd been asking questions every couple of minutes, any time he hit a part he felt didn't have enough information.

Dredging all of that up and then being quizzed on it was only making Dean twitchier.

"It's been all damn day, Bobby."

The old man huffed, not even bothering to look up. "Your brother's a grown ass man, Dean. He can check himself into a hotel. Tell me about the Harvelles."

Dean's stomach clenched at the request. Bobby was slowly tracking through eight years of crap, systematically but methodically identifying each area Dean had neglected to define in detail. He'd pretty much glossed right over Ellen and Jo. Their deaths still rubbed his heart raw in ways that had never healed right.

When the kid didn't answer, Bobby sighed and let the pages of the legal pad fall back into place, covering five years of unpleasant memories. He watched his son stare out the window with a singular focus and decided to take pity on the kid.

"You know something about today?"

Dean glanced over at him with a frown, not understanding his question at first. When he realized what Bobby was asking him, he shrugged. "No. None of this happened the first time."

"Date doesn't ring any bells?"

The hunter paused to think for a moment, then looked over sheepishly. "What's the date?"

Bobby rolled his eyes hard enough he should have gotten whiplash. "May first, you idjit. Two thousand six."

Dean shook his head. He didn't recall anything happening on that date specifically, though there honestly weren't that many events he remembered down to the detail of the day.

"Then give him some space. He'll come back."

The kid grumbled by the window, eyes still looking back through the blinds to the empty yard beyond. Bobby had just gone back to the legal pad when he finally turned into the room. "What if he catches up to Dad? He's going to get himself killed, Bobby, and if Sammy's with him…If Azrael gets him early… God, we've already got the blood addiction to worry about-"

"Calm down," Bobby answered immediately, notepad falling to the side once more. "Getting your tights in a twist ain't gonna fix anything. Sam's a smart kid; he'll be back. But he ain't gonna stay if you keep lying to him, and you know it."

Dean shot him a glare, which he promptly ignored. But movement out the back window caught his attention, and he turned to see a lone figure making his way toward the house. Immediately, Dean pushed open the door with his good arm, jogging down the stairs as Sam came walking up in nothing but his boxers, a pair of dusty boots, and a jacket.

"What happened to the car?" Dean glanced around the yard, wondering briefly why Sam was walking the length of the drive. He hadn't actually figured Sam would run out of the gas. The kid was too smart for that. "Wait, did you walk here?"

His brother spared him a heated glare and pushed right past him back into the house. He gave a brief greeting to Bobby, which was returned in kind, and then headed straight upstairs for a pair of much needed pants.

Letting the door close behind him, Dean watched his brother disappear into the den and the stairs beyond, glancing at Bobby helplessly. The old hunter just guffawed and gave him a 'told ya so' look before going back to his legal pad.

With an eye roll of his own, totally done with being the bad guy here, Dean stomped after Sam. He took the stairs one angry footfall at a time, giving his brother plenty of warning he was coming with all the noise he was making. Sam was just buttoning his jeans and grabbing a clean shirt when Dean opened the door to the room they shared.

"You gonna talk to me, or we just doing the silent thing now?"

Sam paused for half a second before he resumed pulling the shirt on over his head. He let his brother stew in his lack of answer as he pulled the hem down, then reached for his jacket. By the time he'd gotten it on, Dean looked ready to blow. So Sam finally faced him, a mask of nonchalance covering his own anger. "Do you ever get tired of being a damn hypocrite?"

Dean pulled back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means Kettle," Sam gestured to his brother, then to himself. "Pot. You want to talk silent treatment?"

His older brother had the brains to at least move to the side as Sam pushed past him and into the hall. Those brains didn't stop him from following after him, though.

"What the hell, Sam. Since when am I giving you the silent treatment? Pretty sure this is me talking to you."

Sam snorted as he started down the stairs. He swiped his phone and wallet off of Bobby's desk, where he'd left them the night before. He turned around to face his brother, shoving the items into his jacket pocket. "Talking to me? Dean, you haven't talked to me in six months. And I'm done. I'm headed right back out that door after dad or the first hunt I can find unless you start telling me the truth."

Dean hesitated, eyes sliding just over his brother's shoulder, where Bobby was still sitting in the kitchen, watching the confrontation unfold with a pointed look.

Sam shook his head once more. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Dangerous. "I'm not kidding, Dean. This is your last chance. I'm your brother. If that means anything to you, then talk to me."

The older Winchester opened his mouth, only to have nothing come out. He tried again, but damn it, how was he supposed to even start?

Sam dropped his gaze, jaw clenched. He gave a nod and turned toward the kitchen and the back door.

"I don't know how to," Dean blurted out almost desperately. When Sam turned halfway back to him, he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know where to start."

"You're from the future."

Whatever he had been expecting from his brother – and honestly, he'd been expecting that soft, victim-voice and puppy dog eyes to help walk him through this – it wasn't that. The words were biting and fierce, and Sam's eyes dared him to say otherwise.

Dean's mouth flapped like a fish and Bobby coughed harshly in the kitchen, likely covering up the fact that he'd practically snorted his beer. Sam spared him a glance, but quickly refocused his attention on his floundering brother.

The younger Winchester, shoulders heaving with each tension-filled, super-charged breath, couldn't believe how easy it had been. Almost three days of trying to figure out how to broach the subject, since his brother clearly wasn't going to, and it had come down to blurting it out. He was actually more annoyed that he'd wasted those days trying to approach the problem like a referee. Like Sam Winchester would. He should have just approached it like Dean.

He squared his shoulders and stared down at his older brother, whose expression erased the last little bit of doubt in Sam's mind that he could have been wrong. "How about you start there."

The man from the future gaped for another moment before he shook his head. "How the hell-"

"Because I'm not an idiot, Dean." Sam turned and walked swiftly into the kitchen, his brother hot on his heels. He needed motion – action – and quite possibly a drink if he was staying in this house.

"Oh no," Dean countered, following Sam straight over to the fridge. "You don't get to drop that bombshell and call IQ points, college boy. Smart people don't jump straight to time travel!"

Sam whirled on his brother, beer in hand and fridge door open. "You look about a decade older in dreamland, future boy."

Dean was back to floundering, mouth hanging open and snapping shut in a cycle. Finally, with a glance at Bobby who was busy trying out for the Olympic sport of eye rolling and told-ya-so's, the older Winchester cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Oh," he managed, wetting his lips at his suddenly dry mouth. He swiped the beer from his brother's hand, but at least had the decency to look sheepish for all of it. "I hadn't thought of that."

Sam glared at him, but reached in for another beer.

-o-o-o-

The confrontation between the brothers when it finally came to a head was no less tense than Bobby figured it would be. It wasn't quite as volatile as he'd feared, considering Dean was still flabbergasted his brother had figured it out and Sam was far calmer about the confirmation then Bobby thought was normal.

It was still ugly, though.

"What the hell was I supposed to tell you, huh?" Dean popped the cap off the beer with one hand, using the edge of the counter. "Hi, Sam, I'm your brother from ten years in the future. An angel sent me back because serious shit is coming?"

"Anything would have been better than lying to me, Dean!" Sam threw himself into one of the kitchen chairs, and then almost as quickly launched himself back out of it. The wild energy built up in him was clear as day, and Dean at least had the intelligence to stay out of its path. "You're not subtle. I spent the last six months wondering who the hell you were half the time, and the other wondering why you didn't trust me!"

"I do trust you." The words were so quickly state, with such veracity, that it drew Sam up short. He stared at his brother, who was watching him with as earnest as those green eyes ever got. "I trust you, Sam, more than anyone else on this planet."

Dean swallowed, looking away self-consciously, shame flickering at the edges of his gaze. "This wasn't about trust."

"Then what, Dean?" Sam stared at his brother imploringly. "Make me understand. I'm your brother; you should be able to tell me anything."

The older Winchester shrugged his good shoulder, fingers immediately picking at the label of his beer. Sam knew it well for the tell of insecurity it was. "I don't exactly have a manual here, alright? I'm winging it, and I've…I've gotten a lot wrong."

Sam's brow furled. "In…time travel?"

Dean shrugged again, glancing back up. "I'm trying to change things, Sammy. And so far I've mostly just fucked them up."

"That's not true," Bobby groused from the side. Both boys turned to him, having forgotten he was in the room as an audience to their spat. He had the pad of scribbles in front of him, not bothering to hide it, and was pointing the pen in Dean's direction. "You've done good too, kid. You know that."

Dean ducked his gaze away again. Looking at his brother and his anger and confusion was easier than Bobby and his praise. "Point is, I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how much I can tell you, how much I can change without, you know, breaking the friggin' or universe or something."

"Anything is better than you lying to me, man." Sam stood in the doorway of the kitchen, slouched for all his height. Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his head, seeing only his kid brother standing there.

"I know," he conceded softly. "I know, Sam. And I didn't want to lie to you. I've been trying not to, alright, ever since-"

He cut himself off automatically, six months of instinct and rehearsal shutting down that line of thought as soon as it registered as 'future knowledge.' The idea of sharing it now, of uttering it without care, was both terrifying and desperately freeing.

"Since what?"

"Since I promised you – future you – no more secrets," Dean confessed, taking the plunge. It left him in one fast, long exhale, like a breath he'd been holding too long, till his lungs burned with the need to let it out. "Shit, man. Maybe that promise is ten years from now, but damn it, I was trying. You'd think time travel would be some sort of exception, but I still felt like crap every time."

"What about now?" Sam held open his arms, beer in one hand and too many expectations in the other. "I know now, Dean, and you didn't even tell me. I figured it out, so the universe can…suck it."

His older brother huffed out a laugh, but it settled in an awkward silence as he hesitated once more.

Sam dropped his arms. "Seriously?"

"It's got nothing to do with you, Sammy," Dean growled, rubbing the back of his head again. "I don't know what's safe to tell you. I had a friggin' panic attack the first time I even tried."

The younger of the two recalled a time not long after Dean had changed that he'd been an anxious, tongue-tied mess. Sam had been scarily close to calling Bobby or a head doctor. So that seemed a likely contender for what his brother was referencing.

"Did you hold back with Bobby?" He glanced back at the kitchen table and the thick pad of paper, curling at the edges and full of the older hunter's scrawl. "Because those pages look pretty full to me."

"Bobby's different."

Sam had to bite down on the instant surge of annoyance and hurt called up by his brother's words. Instead, he reminded himself that Dean Winchester had never been good with them and ignored the slight buzz throughout his veins. "How? You mean he's not your kid brother."

"That's not what I said."

"Kind of sounding like it, Dean."

"None of Bobby's decisions are going to start the Apocalypse!"

Dead silence filled the entirety of the Singer house. Sam was staring at his brother with wide eyes, barely able to breathe through suddenly constricted lungs. Dean stood across from him, looking like he wanted to shove his foot in his mouth and then swallow himself whole. At the kitchen table, Bobby made a disgruntled noise, planting his forehead in his palm.

"What?"

The whispered word was hardly a breath and Dean sighed, head hung.

"Bobby doesn't have as many choices coming up – important ones – that are going to have world-ending consequences."

"Yeah, I know the definition of an apocalypse, Dean. How about you cover the part of me starting one."

"It's not just you," Dean mumbled, raising his eyes to meet his brother's with more pain than Sam was comfortable seeing in them. "We both got starring roles to play in this, Sammy."

The younger Winchester took a shuttering breath in, heavy realization settling in his gut that Dean was serious. Not that this as a joke had even occurred to him, but it was natural for his brain to automatically flip the 'false' switch at anyone casually dropping the apocalypse as an upcoming calendar event.

"How…" He swallowed heavily, eyes darting around the room and back again. "Dean, how am I supposed to make the right choice if I don't even know the context of my options!"

"I'll help you."

The answer came so easily, so readily, off lips that had said those words a thousand times to him. Words that were formed in aid, but yielded control. Words he'd learned from their father, however well intended either Winchester man had meant to be.

"No, you mean you'll make the decision for me," Sam countered sharply as the buzz beneath his skin returned. It was nothing more than a slight vibration, but he was learning to tune into it faster now. "Helping me would mean telling me the truth and trusting me to make the right call!"

Bobby speared the older of the two brothers with a look that Dean couldn't duck, but could avoid returning.

"Sammy-"

"No, Dean! You can't just take my choices away from me because something's coming, because of decisions I haven't even made yet and things I haven't done." Sam scoffed, turning away from his brother. He rolled tight, aching shoulders, snapping his neck to the side as tension rippled up his spine. "I should have known better. This family. If I don't fit the mold, you'll just force me into it, won't you? You, Dad, the Yellow Eyed Demon. God forbid I make my own choices! To hell with the road I want to take, right?"

Sam was good and rearing, lungs filled and ready for verse two. Dean was already raising a finger, mouth open to beat him back down. He hardly noticed the building migraine, flaring with every word he spewed, or the way the edges of his vision darkened as he spun back to face his brother.

Dean barely caught the six and a half feet of Samsquatch before he hit the floor, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Bobby was up and out of his chair in a second flat, squatting down on the other side of the brothers. Sam hissed in Dean's good arm and the older Winchester struggled not to lose his hold on him as he tossed his head back and forth. He squinted past them with unseeing eyes, face pinched in pain as he tried to reach for his temple, entangling his arms with his brother's.

"What's happening?" Bobby asked, hands held out to help and assess, but with no idea what to do.

"I think it's a vision," Dean answered. Sam had only had one or two in front of him in the past, and he was pretty sure he hadn't hit the deck during any of those. Mid-rant, it was unlikely he'd been trying to push himself to have one again, like he had back in Wyoming before the whole blood debacle.

But with a pint of demon blood in his veins…Dean hadn't seen fallout from that yet, but he didn't think for a second that it meant they were out of the woods.

"Sammy?"

His kid brother finally stilled against him, fingers finding purchase against his temple and pressing into the headache he was sure to be feeling. Sam managed to open his eyes to slivers, staring up at his brother and Bobby. He groaned as he realized what had happened, struggling to sit and getting fully upright with his brother's help.

"What did you see?" Dean asked, keeping his hand placed supportively on his brother's back. "Was it Dad?"

"No." Sam shook his head, wincing as he did so and prompting Bobby to climb to his feet and head for the fridge and the ice pack he kept there. Sam accepted it and the hand towel gratefully, wrapping the cotton around the cold before pressing it to his aching head. "It was some guy in his garage. I think…he committed suicide, only it wasn't him. The car turned on by itself – wouldn't turn off – and the garage door wouldn't open. He couldn't get out."

Bobby watched the kid worriedly. He'd yet to see one of these visions, and if they were all doozies like that one, he was rather glad he hadn't. "Sounds like a ghost."

No, Dean thought. But it did sound familiar.

"There was something else-" Sam shook his head slightly, squinting once more as he tried to recall what he'd seen. "A kid. I don't know, the son, maybe? He was watching from the house."

Bobby stilled beside them, face tightening in thought. When Dean called his name, he glanced between the boys and then stood, beckoning them to his desk. Sam grabbed his brother's offered hand, pulling himself to his feet with a pained groan. He kept the ice pressed to his temple as the three men gathered around Bobby's desk, the old hunter pulling maps and sheets of paper from one of the drawers.

Files hit the surface in stacks, spreading out as paper slid over the smooth surface. Each stack was paper clipped together and topped with a photo of various kids. There had to be a dozen of them at least, smiling faces of teenagers and college kids. Some of which Dean recognized.

He looked up, meeting Bobby's eyes with surprise.

"What? You think John Winchester is the only one who can put together a pattern?"

Dean looked back down at the spread of Azazel's special children. Damn, Bobby was awesome.

"Any of 'em look familiar, Sam?"

The younger of the Winchesters pushed loose the few files that had remained stacked, hand hovering just above each photo, before settling on one. "Him. He was the one I saw."

Bobby pulled the stack out from under Sam's hand, flipping it open. Dean caught the familiar face staring up from the front page as it flopped over.

"Max Miller," the older hunter began reading. "Twenty-three years old, lives at home with his father and step-mother in Saginaw, Michigan. Birth mother died in a house fire when he was six months old."

"Do you think he's like me?"

"No," Dean responded hollowly, still staring at that ghost of a boy. He looked up to meet Sam and Bobby's eyes, respectively. "He doesn't get visions. He's, uh…telekinetic."

Sam stared at him, clearly boggled, though from the confirmation of other children with powers or a boy with the ability to move things with his mind, Dean didn't know. Or possibly his older brother finally admitting to knowing things he shouldn't 'cuz of that whole future thing, and all.

He cleared his throat when the wide-eyed staring didn't stop. "I, uh, don't remember much. I think he iced his parents. Abusive, or something. We thought it was a ghost when we first showed up."

"Telekinetic?" Sam still seemed a little shell-shocked.

"Yeah. All of you have different…abilities."

His kid brother took in a shuttering breath, eyelids fluttering for a moment and finally breaking that hundred-yard stare. "So there are more of us?"

"Yeah… Yeah, a lot more." Dean's words trailed off as he tried to dig through his memories for the confrontation with Max Miller. The kid had killed his dad in the garage, that much he remembered from Sam's vision. But there had been something else, too. He'd gone after his stepmom with a gun? A levitating gun. Dean's levitating gun.

"We gotta go," the older Winchester announced, turning around in the den in search of his jacket and car keys.

"What?"

"The dad died before we got there last time. We gotta go if we're going to save him." The image of Max lying in a pool of blood, bullet to the brain, was suddenly sharp in his mind. "If we're going to save Max."

"Dean." His brother's warning voice drew him up short. He could tell from the sasquatch's body language that he was a moment away from grabbing his own go bag and hitting the road, so it wasn't the sudden departure causing that tone. Meeting Sam's eyes, he could see the unfinished conversation plain as day in those hazel rings.

"I'll…I'll tell you what I can on the road. I promise," he intoned seriously, even as his chest constricted at the idea of fulfilling that vow.

Sam shared a skeptical look with Bobby, but grabbed Max's file from his hand and headed after his brother to confront the first of the Yellow Eyed Demon's other children.