-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: The brothers are back together, but not all is well in the Singer House. Conversation, confrontation, and secrets are coming to a head. Sam's utterly done with it while Dean's still trying to figure out how to be done with it. An Bobby is Bobby. Awesome and supportive, with the occasional tough love smack to the back of a deserving head (better duck, Dean)

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The Road So Far (This Time Around)

Season 2: Chapter 7

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Dean entered the house with his bag of groceries and Plan C. His mood was greatly improved by pie and the overall feel-good-ness, which he couldn't exactly explain the existence of, but every time he started worrying about it, he somehow got distracted until the uncharacteristic hope pooling in his chest didn't seem all that important to dig into.

Despite the misdirection worthy of Copperfield himself, Dean was very much starting to suspect God had mucked around in his brain.

If that wasn't enough to dampen his determined mood (and dammit, it friggin wasn't, by the nature of the very misdirection he ought to be annoyed as hell about), than seeing his brother certainly was. At the first glimpse of Sam, standing in front of one of Bobby's many bookshelves, a selection of books already resting in the crook of his elbow, their last conversation came flooding back. What Sam had asked him to do. And along with it came the desperation and the cold and the damn despair.

Dean felt that bubble of warmth in his chest warble and flag under the weight of the memory. Damn it, he really needed answers about that, because it was getting weird now that he knew it was there. Worse, he was pretty sure he'd gotten answers, only he really couldn't be sure because as soon as he tried thinking about it, he couldn't remember anymore.

Friggin' God.

Ruthlessly, he took the dark little raincloud hovering over his head, formed by his brother and his fuzzy memory and the stupid warbling chest angel, and shoved it viciously to the side. They weren't out of this game yet. They had Plan C, for starters, and Dean wasn't gonna stop there. Even if God was the reason he had the stupid, fluttery, feel-good hope of hope-y-ness in his chest, it was something that finally felt good. And damn it, they hadn't had good in weeks.

He'd kick God's ass for it later. As soon as he found him again. Because… he had no idea where the guy was.

…Jesus Christ, where had Dean even been the last two days?

"Son of a bitch," the hunter audibly growled, finally tearing away from the frozen spot in the entrance to Bobby's study and heading straight through to the kitchen. He set the paper bag full of glass jars and pie down on the counter harder than he intended, though not harder than his current mood suggested. Sam, who'd already looked up from his research at his brother's entrance, moved into the kitchen at the loud noise and obvious tension filling the room. He brought with him a guilty look, which Dean spotted first, but quickly moved beyond to the dark circles, pale and sallow skin, and damp bangs.

His brother looked sick.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked immediately, raincloud all but forgotten and chest-warmth sidelined in the face of his brother's slumped posture and finite trembling. Dread rapidly pooled in his gut as his mind easily supplied the most likely cause. "You're shaking."

Sam glanced down at his hand, fingers barely quivering now in comparison to twelve hours ago when he couldn't have even held his hand up, let alone kept it steady. "I'm, uh… I'm…"

He hesitated, stumbling over the words. Was he good? He clearly wasn't, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be. Couldn't be. He met his brother's concerned eyes. The trepidation he'd feared seeing was indeed there, blatantly on display, but in equal portions to the worry and fear born of love and, if he knew his brother as well as he thought, the guilt of leaving.

"I'm on the other side," he admitted quietly, giving Dean the confirmation that it was exactly what he was fearing. No point hiding it, and no desire to anyway, only shame. "I'm alright, Dean."

His older brother glanced down at his trembling fingertips, then back to his face, and the regret there was so strong that Sam almost forgave him on the spot. He didn't, of course, not entirely. Dean had left and that still hurt. Not to mention his timing had sucked (understatement of the century), but Sam knew Dean hadn't realized what he was leaving his younger brother behind to face alone. Not entirely, at least.

How could he? Sam hadn't said anything out of shame, or anger, or grief, he didn't know. All of the above, probably, but it wasn't the point.

"I'm sorry," the young hunter blurted out, locking gazes with his older brother who looked about a second away from saying the same. Sam needed to say his piece first, before he waivered or let Dean apologize his way out of everything, including the portion of guilt that was Sam's to bear. "What I asked you to do. I never should have- You didn't deserve-"

Dean nodded heavily, saving Sammy from having to put it into words, despite his need to. "Sam, you don't have to-"

"I don't want to die." The confession was just as sudden as his apology, and the younger Winchester gulped slightly as the way his brother's jaw clacked shut and he stared, wide-eyed and slightly horrified, at him. "But I don't want to start the end of the world, either, Dean."

"You won't." Dean's voice was soft, haunted even. "I swear to you, Sam. We'll figure this out. We always do. Trust me."

Sam nodded, almost by rote, but his throat hurt and his eyes stung and he couldn't form the words to say he had his doubts, had his share of old wounds not yet scabbed over, probably had so many more coming and he had no idea how he would ever endure them all.

"And I'll trust you." Dean's gaze was honest and so damn sorry when Sam's eyes snapped up to his. "I told you it's not about that and- and maybe that wasn't fair. I do trust you, Sammy. More than anyone. It doesn't stop me wanting to protect you. Sometimes from everything."

In the silence between them, Sam struggled to form anything in return. He din't know what to say. What he wanted to say. What he should say. He didn't want to have the same argument they always had. He wanted to tell his brother he didn't need protecting (was that even true anymore?) and have Dean actually believe it. He wanted it to be true, to stop feeling the weight of the futility of it all.

"If you never let anything happen to me…" Without his brain's consent, he found his mouth forming the words of a distant memory that came faintly, but seemed right. Because his brain was busy thinking of a little fish with a gimp fin; a film he would never have wasted an evening on if Jess hadn't insisted, plopping down on the couch with a bag of popcorn and a scandalized expression when Sam told her he wasn't into to kid movies.

'It's not a kids movie!' she'd rebuked, mock offense painting her beautiful face. 'It's Disney. There's a difference, and I will no long associate with you if you do the lawyer thing on this.'

'It's called a rebuttal.'

'You're a rebuttal. Now shut up, sit down, and watch the fishes.'

Sam cleared his throat and fought the water mounting in his eyes at the memory. God, he missed her. But he remembered that stupid little fish, whose father had tried to protect him from everything. That damn, adorable little clownfish who Sam had related to on a level he was not comfortable admitting. "Then nothing can ever happen to me."

Dean's brow was cinched together tightly, staring at his brother with heavy, dark eyes. "Did you…Did you just quote Finding Nemo at me?"

Sam rolled his eyes, ignoring his brother's indignation with as much sass as an ailing Bitchface could manage. Of course Dean would recognize the movie. There apparently wasn't a movie on the planet his brother hadn't seen and knew by heart. So instead, he translated; "Two Winchesters are better than one, but you've got to let me grow up."

Dean huffed, eyes darting over Sam's shoulder as Bobby approached from the study with his usual mix of both caution and fuck-it-this-is-my-house-you-idjits. The man from the future didn't fight the grin that spread across his face as their surrogate father joined them. "Throw in a Singer, and we're damn near unstoppable."

The old hunter glanced between the two boys, one raised eyebrow almost meeting the line of his cap. Sam sent a weak smile his way, but Bobby was confident it would strengthen with time. "Apocalypse don't stand a chance."

"Damn straight." Dean gave a resounding nod, then turned back to his bag of groceries and started pulling out a cardboard box that smelled suspiciously like pie – what else – and jars of ground herbs, dried leaves, and other assortments. "I got pie!"

And just like that, they were all almost okay again.

"And not much else edible," Sam chimed in, picking up jar after jar as Dean dug them out of the paper bag and set them aside.

His brother sent him a truly scandalized look. "Why would you need anything else when you have pie?"

Sam rolled his eyes again, setting one of the mystery jars down and looking at the growing collection coming out of the pretty full paper bag. "What's all this for?"

"Uh…" Dean balked for just a second, the hesitation and damn near panic perfectly clear on his face. His brain stuttered a minute.

This was Plan C. Plan C was awesome. Sam would love Plan C. Only problem was, he didn't actually know where the idea for Plan C had come from, other than to literally appear in the passenger seat beside him. Oh, sure, he remembered shopping for every one of those items in that bag – he'd apparently gone to three different stores to find it all. Only problem was, he was also very much sure he hadn't done any of that at all. And despite the little warble of joy bouncing around in his chest right now, Dean was also pretty damn sure this wasn't his plan.

He cleared his throat. "That's for summoning an angel."

Sam almost dropped the jar of white, soft petals he had just picked up. They looked kind of like jasmine. He stared at his brother, wide-eyed. "What?"

Dean shrugged self-consciously, all that confidence and warm, chest-gooyeness suddenly nowhere to be found. Thanks, Sternum-Cas. He set the pie to the side for later, and faced Sam and Bobby with as squared shoulders as he could manage and absolute uncertainty in everything else.

"We're gonna summon Cas."

His younger brother floundered only for a moment. It was long enough for Dean to wonder if maybe he should have snuck off to some abandoned barn to do this by himself like he originally wanted to (did he?). Maybe drag Bobby along just to keep Time and her 'some things should stay the same' crap happy (Crap, was that a thing he needed to worry about?) (God damnit, God!).But when Sam finally stuttered out a response, it had absolutely nothing to do with summoning an angel at all.

"I- I thought that's who you went to see."

Bobby was ping-ponging between the two like a referee at a tennis match.

"Oh." Dean cleared his throat, blatantly ignored the wide-eyed, expectant, and dangerously-close-to-a-lecture look coming from his surrogate father, and awkwardly addressed his brother instead. "Uh, no, that was…someone else. Total bust too. This is Plan C!"

He gestured to the ingredients spread out around them on the kitchen table. Very Vanna White. Even had the smile and everything. That made Bobby Trebek, and Sam the nerdy college contestant who was gonna blow all that money on the final question.

Dean needed to start watching less television. He'd learned a long time ago that nothing good ever happened when his sense of humor started paralleling Gabriel's.

"Dean, who did you go see?" Sam was staring at him hard now, expectation and no small amount of concern seeping from every inch of his body. Bobby looked to be about the same. "Where were you for the last two days?"

"Funny you should ask that…" Dean trailed off as he rubbed the back of his head. He'd told Sam no more lies, and they'd just now had some sort of awkward, brotherly, I'll-trust-you-if-you-trust-me truce. But Dean wasn't about to tell him he didn't actually know where he'd gone. Or come back from. Or what he'd spent two days doing.

Friggin' God, man!

"Dean." Sam's posture was rigid, his brow straight and heavy, forehead dangerously smooth. "Who. Did you. Go see."

"Look, before you two get on my case about this..." The hunter cleared his throat. So much for being almost all okay again. This was gonna be the shortest turnaround ever in the history of the Winchester brothers, and that was saying something. "I didn't want you to meet the guy because I was protecting-"

"Do not tell me you were protecting me!" Sam barked, cutting him off with a stormy expression. "Damn it, Dean! When are you going to stop pulling this crap? I'm not some innocent kid!"

"It's not about that," Dean argued back, running a hand roughly across his scalp as he struggled, once more, to put his reasoning (perfectly valid reasoning, thank you very much) into words that didn't make him sound like a total ass. "You're right, you don't need protection. I wasn't protecting you that way. I was trying to protect…you."

He gestured emphatically at his little brother, whose face was screwed up in the Ultimate Bitchface (unworthy of numbering, for it was Ultimate). Dean sighed, aggravated. "I know you're not some damsel in distress, Sam. That's not- this wasn't-"

It was clear from the look Sam and Bobby exchanged that he was failing spectacularly at this, and they had no clue what he was trying to get at.

"You're good."

Sam blinked at his brother's words, echoes of Bobby's own less than half an hour before; his adamant assurance that Dean thought the same, though neither believed they'd hear it from him. Not directly, at least. Dean didn't do direct.

"You're not like me, alright? You're good. You believe in God and angels and people actually being halfway decent. You have faith; I know you pray, and believe in the whole 'Plan' thing, despite our crap lives and every shitty thing that's happened to us. You'll always think God's up there, listening. That he gives a damn. The apocalypse doesn't really change that, Sammy." Dean's shoulders sagged, words winding down as he admitted, awkwardly, "I didn't want to ruin that."

Bobby and Sam both stared at him as they slowly realized that, somewhere in there, he'd admitted to who he'd gone to see. The wheels were obviously turning as they worked through the older Winchester's jumble of words for the underlying meaning. As they each got through it, Dean watched with building anxiety as their eyes widened and they checked in with each other, a clear 'he's not saying what I think he said, right?' on both their faces. Of course, it happened in slow-motion for Dean, but for everyone else it was scant seconds. Sam and Bobby were both veritable geniuses, and this wasn't exactly a Mensa puzzle they were solving.

"Dean, are you saying…"

Bobby picked up where Sam trailed off, "You went and had a chat with God?"

All Dean could do was shrug one shoulder awkwardly. Again. Sam practically choked. Bobby, at least, covered his equally negative reaction with a snort.

"You know… You know God?" Sam asked somewhat weakly once he'd recovered. At the same time, Bobby crossed the two feet of distance between them to smack Dean on the back of the head.

The hunter, halfway to opening his mouth to say 'well, before yesterday I did,' yelped like a chastised child. "Jeez, what was that for, Bobby?"

"I don't s'pose you have any clue what a dumbass move that was?" Bobby's tone was certainly reprimanding, and Dean had the decency to not quite meet his gaze. "Sam said you weren't doing anything dangerous. Kinda got the feeling yelling at God qualifies as dangerous, ya idjit! It's damn stupid, at the very least."

"It doesn't matter," he dismissed offhandedly, rubbing the back of his stinging head with a glare. "He wasn't going to do anything. He's not interesting in 'interfering.' He's not interested in anything."

No need to mention the fact that he was pretty sure God had altered at least some of his memories, which was something. Something entirely unhelpful, that was. But it definitely wasn't information at all necessary for this discussion. Not at all. It would probably get him another smack to the head. All the more reason not to bring it up.

"You already knew that, though," Sam realized softly, staring at his brother with something eternally sad etched across his face. Dean mistook it for the loss of faith he'd been so weary of causing and his shoulders slumped further in the face of all but shattering the last of his brother's innocence.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he mumbled.

But Dean had misunderstood his brother's reaction, and Sam was already shaking his head, expression smoothing out into discontent blankness.

"That's your faith. Not mine."

Dean blinked at the suddenly dark tone. It was nothing compared to some of the fights they'd had or some of the times he'd truly ticked his brother off, but it was still pretty up there on the scale of Pissed Off Younger Brother.

The older Winchester's confusion must have been evident, because Sam continued, "You're talking about your lack of faith like it's mine. Like God not living up to your expectations cancels out what I believe. Your faith doesn't define mine, Dean."

"It's not about faith," his brother immediately argued back, brow furled like he didn't have a clue in the world what Sam was so upset about. "I've met him. He's a douchebag. A deadbeat who doesn't give a crap about any of his so-called 'kids.'"

The taller man shook his head, ignoring his brother's finger quotes and growing annoyance with him. "Even if that's true, that's not how faith works. God, this is your problem! This is why you don't trust me, Dean, even when you think you actually do!"

Now Dean was getting riled up as well, anger beginning to buzz in the back of his skull at the attack coming out of nowhere, at least from his perspective. "What the hell, Sam. How is this about me?"

"Because you already told me God was a deadbeat and angels were dicks. And you just said it doesn't change me, that the apocalypse doesn't change what I believe. And yet you kept me away under some pretense of protecting my, what, my faith? Faith you don't even believe in. And I don't mean faith in God; I mean me, Dean. You don't believe in my faith in myself, let alone have any faith in me yourself."

Sam tossed his head side to side, a disbelieving huff passing through pursed lips. "That's such bullshit, man! You can't keep making calls for me like that."

Truly baffled, Dean threw his arms forcefully out to the sides. How the hell had they circled back to this again!

"It doesn't matter if God's a deadbeat," Sam responded to the non-verbal (and pissy) question. "It doesn't matter if seeing Him would have destroyed my faith or anything else. You didn't give me the chance to find that out on my own. You decided it would, and that's that. Choice made! That's not protection, it's control, Dean. And you have to stop it, right now. I'm not kidding."

Something clicked that never had before, and Dean's arms fell like cement weights to his sides. He stared at his brother, bits and pieces of so many arguments they'd had through the years coming back now, some in a much clearer light. It wasn't a lightbulb above his head or a lighting strike of epiphany, but for Dean Winchester it was damn close.

"You say you trust me, that you know I can take care of myself, but you don't let me." Sam's shoulders sagged slightly, the wind in his sails beginning to falter as his anger lost steam, leaving just the overwhelming sadness that he'd felt at the start of it all. He'd yet to see the way Dean was staring at him as anything other than the continued disconnect the brothers had had for years on this subject. The disconnect Sam was fairly certain they'd always have, so long as they could survive it, and he didn't know how long they could. "I need to call my own shots, make my own decisions. I can't do this any other way, Dean. Not with what's coming."

Dean could only keep staring. Sam's expression was so damn disappointed and resigned, like he'd had this argument a hundred times and already knew it would change nothing, even if his anger remained and his feelings were justified. Dean struggled to keep that gaze; it hurt something deep inside him and yeah, okay, maybe they'd had this argument a dozen times, but for some reason, either Dean was actually listening or he'd finally heard the words enough to learn their meaning.

The room was heavy as silence settled between the three of them. This wasn't Bobby's fight, of course, and he'd managed a step or two back from the boys to have it out. He was family, though, and it was testament to that that neither Sam nor Dean felt his presence as awkward or intruding on this very personal, charged conversation.

Sam heaved a final, exhausted breath. "We have an impossible task ahead of us, and I can't do it alone. I don't want to. But your way or the- no, just your way, no highway option, isn't going to work. We do this, it has to be together, Dean. As equals."

Dean huffed, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, far less defensively than the others were probably expecting. "Robin and Batman, not Batman and Robin, huh?"

Sam didn't laugh right away, like Dean had kind of hoped but ultimately knew wasn't likely. He just stared, eyes bordering on further frustration. Finally, he hung his head. With an exasperated headshake and matching sigh, looked back up and tried not to smile that exhausted smile of a younger brother who constantly had to be the more grown up one.

"Partners. Brothers. Not older and younger, not hero and sidekick."

Scrunching up his face, Dean gave almost a comical impression of thinking before nodding in acquiescence. "Dynamic duo. Team Free Will."

It was Dean's (only) way of breaking the harsh tension of a serious conversation without dismissing it. This was Sam's older brother saying 'I hear you' in the only language he knew.

Still, the man cleared his throat. His expression tried for serious and landed shy of it, somewhere around sheepish. "You know, I'm damn near forty, and that's one thing I'm still total crap at."

He chanced a glance at his brother, rubbing the back of his neck. Something in Sam's eye must have triggered a change, though. His green gaze turned somber and he dropped his hand. "I'll try. I swear, Sammy. I'll give it my best."

It took a moment of Sam's challenging stare, before the younger relented an nodded solemnly in the end, accepting the concession. The look in his Dean's eye was enough to convince him he was taking this seriously, and he may finally understand what his brother had spent years trying to communicate.

Off to their side, Bobby let out an audible breath of air and it made the younger Winchester chuckle. Before he knew it, it was a full laugh. Dean cast him a suspicious look, but Sam just shook his head with the first real smile he'd felt in weeks. "Dude. You're old."

So maybe he was letting the tension in the room slide away in no more mature a manner than Dean had tried. And maybe he was accepting the easy-out. But it was worth it to see the way his older brother's face screwed up into something appalled and offended, and he twisted his body like he was going to leave, only he had nowhere to go.

"Shaddup," he settled on, making a beeline for the fridge instead, all the while grumbling, "I'm not old. You're old. Your face is old. Shut up."

-o-o-o-

"So," Bobby began conversationally a handful of minutes later as the three men sat around the kitchen, beers in hand. The gruff man shot a look towards the various supplies spread across his kitchen table, a couple still on the counter by the sink. His tone may have been conversational, but the scant glance was anything but. "We gonna summon an angel, or what?"

Dean swallowed his beer a little more forcefully then he would have preferred, trying to cover up the choking cough with an ill-disguised throat clearing. "We probably shouldn't tonight. It's getting late."

The look he sent the scattered jars of herbs, flowers, and powders was nothing short of longing, Sam thought. Or, it would have been, if Sam knew he wouldn't get his ass kicked just for thinking something like that. More worrying, however, was the hesitation there. His brother was a gung-ho, go-getter. Fly by the seat of your pants, plans are for sissies. He didn't do hesitation, not when it came to action, especially not when he already had a plan (labeled and everything)

But the way his eyes met theirs, a little too quickly before dropping back to his beer, told both Sam and Bobby that he was about to give some crap reason to put it off.

"We should wait till the Impala's fixed up."

Bobby harrumphed and Sam stared on, brow pinched in concern. He shifted in his chair. "Why? Why wait?"

His older brother looked really uncomfortable for a moment, wiggling in his chair and completely oblivious to the blatant tell. Truth was, Dean needed time to think. Hell, he didn't even know if summoning Cas was his idea or God's. If it was God's, why the hell did he wipe his memory of it? Why not just friggin' tell him like a normal person!

Because he was friggin God: the kid with an ant farm.

"Cuz it's not as simple as just waving a magic wand and poof, Cas!" he grumbled into his beer before taking a long swig to put off the topic for another moment more. "We can't do it here, for starters. We'll have to find a safer place."

"Safer?" Sam blinked, surprise warring with immediate worry at the implication of those words. Why, exactly, did they need to be safe from a potential ally and friend?

"Than this house?" Bobby balked, almost at the same time. The hesitation that had been painted across the man's features tripled. Maybe even quadrupled. "Why in hell's name do we need something safer than my home?"

The forceful gesture he aimed at the walls around them was, in no way, exaggerated. Bobby Singer's house was one of the safest places from supernatural forces on the planet. If they needed something more, what on Earth were they talking about summoning?

"Uh…." Dean neglected to answer, instead he started digging into his jeans' pocket for his phone. "That reminds me, we'll need to grab one more thing."

It hadn't been in with the rest of the supplies. Another oddity, since Dean very clearly stopping at all those different stores for the various ingredients. Well, maybe not very clearly. Okay. Maybe not clearly at all. Kinda foggy around the edges actually… Whatever. Point was, he was pretty sure this wasn't one he would have forgotten.

Just another sign that God had mucked around in his brain, something he really wanted to be more furious about than he currently was. Hell, he'd settle for angry. But he couldn't seem to stay on topic long enough to really care.

Mother. Friggin. Gods.

Scrolling through his contacts, he ignored the curious looks his father figure and brother were sending his – and each other's – way. The phone started dialing and Dean raised it to his ear.

"Hey, Pastor Jim!" he greeted with a fond smile when the line picked up. There was something awesome about talking to the guy he'd spent his fair share of weekends with growing up and who hadn't been gutted by a demon bitch this time around. It wormed its way into his chest, not so different from that warm confidence and, dare he say, hope that he'd felt earlier. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could get my hands on some holy oil, would you?"