Season Four

Episode One: Refraction

By irismay42

Part Two

“Sam Winchester.” The smugly-grinning Fed took a step closer to Sam, hands on hips to pointedly reveal his sidearm. “It’s been a while.”

This was getting embarrassing. Everyone seemed to know who Sam was, but he was completely unable to say the same about anybody else. Like that nutjob Gordon Walker. He thought Sam was the Antichrist, while Sam didn’t know him from Adam. He wasn’t sure anyone could have a lower opinion of him than that, but he was still a little worried about who the Fed standing in front of him might think he was.

“You have me at a disadvantage, officer,” Sam said coolly. “You seem to know who I am, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced…”

“Don’t gimme that crap, Winchester,” the Fed snapped. “You know damn well who I am. And pretending you don’t ain’t gonna help no insanity plea you might be cookin’ up.”

Sam really didn’t know who this guy was, but he knew better than to say so. He’d studied at the John Winchester School of Etiquette, after all, so he knew there was a time to be honest and speak your mind, and a time to cut your losses and shut the hell up.

This, he was fairly sure, fell into the latter category.

The Fed nodded at the two cops still flanking Sam at either side. “It’s okay, guys, I can take it from here,” he told them with a confident smirk.

The cops dutifully released the hold they had on Sam’s arms and retreated, leaving the Fed to grab his elbow and resume pulling him deeper into the warehouse.

Sam didn’t resist—again, he knew there was a time and a place for putting up a fight. Sometimes it was to your advantage to just go with the flow, and right now the only advantage Sam seemed to have was the fact he wasn’t dead. Yet.

“You know I heard you boys weren’t running your little operation anymore,” the Fed was saying conversationally. “Heard after Milwaukee you had a falling out?”

Sam was only half listening, his attention consumed by the state of the room he now found himself in; the walls and the machinery and those heavy as hell packing crates were all riddled with bullet holes as if there’d been some kind of huge firefight here.

“So what happened?” the Fed continued. “You decided to go all legit and respectable? Let that psycho serial killer brother of yours take the fall?”

That did get Sam’s attention. Serial killer?

“Not that I blame you,” the Fed added. “I mean, keeping his crazy-ass ass outta jail must o’ been a full-time job in itself, right?”

The Fed cast his eye over him disparagingly, and Sam was suddenly acutely aware of his expensive suit and the soft leather shoes he appeared to be wearing.

“Never did have much time for lawyers,” the Fed informed him. “Especially scumbag lawyers like you.”

Sam opened his mouth to object, but quickly closed it again when he realized he really didn’t have the first clue what kind of lawyer the Sam this Fed was talking about might be.

“Y’know,” the Fed continued, “we might never have been able to prove you had anything to do with Milwaukee, but that doesn’t make you any less guilty.”

Sam searched his memory for recent references to Milwaukee, uncertain why this guy seemed so hung up on the place. Then he remembered Dean’s rap sheet. The bank robbery. At least three dead…

“You’re just a serial killer in a suit, Sammy,” the Fed continued, leading Sam into another room that looked as if an entire police precinct had used it for target practice. “You’re as much of a monster as he is. Running the show from your corner office while he’s off murdering anyone you paint a bullseye on, right? You knew we’d never be able to link you to Milwaukee, prove the whole sorry mess was your idea. That’s why you tossed Dean’s ass, ain’t it? Let him take the blame? Cut your losses? Poor dumb Dean, too stupid to realize you’d sold him down the river. But come on, you didn’t actually expect us to believe Dean had the smarts to pull off a bank heist that size on his own did you? Give us a little credit, Sam! We know you’re the criminal mastermind here, the one running the show. Not your intellectually challenged halfwit psychopath brother. Dean’s just a hammer. Clyde to your Bonnie. Sammy’s blunt little instrument.”

“Dean’s not stupid,” Sam blurted out, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

“You gonna tell me he’s just misunderstood? Or maybe he’s just differently-abled, huh?” The Fed laughed sardonically, and Sam was uncomfortably reminded of the vampire he recently beheaded only a few feet away. “You might change your mind about that soon, Sam,” the guy added with a grin.

As the Fed led Sam into the next room, a uniformed police officer approached, fingering his radio as if he’d just been about to make a call. “You want this one bagged and tagged Agent Henriksen?” he asked, inclining his head further into the room.

Henriksen, huh? Sam tried to remember whether he or Dean had ever had a run in with an Agent Henriksen, but came up empty. If he knew this guy, it must have been in another life.

“Not yet,” the agent was saying to the cop. “Time for a little show and tell with Sammy here first.”

Henriksen jerked on Sam’s arm, and Sam followed obediently, a little intimidated by the number of cops around him, not to mention the ridiculous number of bullet holes peppering the walls.

“Shame you got here a little late for the party,” Henriksen was saying. “I gotta say, after Milwaukee I’m surprised, you showing up here to help out personally. What happened? You figured it was about time you got your hands dirty? Had enough of your nutjob brother getting to have all the fun? I guess I just figured you wouldn’t wanna be seen dead with Dean once you’d ditched his sorry ass. But I guess I was wrong. Brotherly love’s a beautiful thing, Samuel. I guess you two just decided to kiss and make up, huh?” The Fed shook his head in a horribly fake mockery of an apology. “Well that’s nice. But I don’t figure Dean’s gonna be doing much kissin’ after today, Sam.”

As they rounded the next corner, Sam’s feet stuttered to a halt as, with a shock, he realized they were standing in the exact spot where he’d beheaded the vampire.

Henriksen frowned, yanking insistently on Sam’s arm. “C’mon, Sam,” he cajoled. “We’re almost to the best part.”

As Sam followed the agent into the room, his eyes lit on a bloody coil of razor wire strewn across the floor, along with a scattering of spent shell casings. There were even more bullet holes in the walls here than in the rest of the building, and Sam couldn’t help thinking that someone had to have gone down in one hell of a blaze of glory to make this much mess.

Which was when he saw the pool of blood on the floor.

And the body lying in the middle of it.

And his brain froze completely.

“Dean?” The name was barely more than a whisper, Sam’s brother’s body so riddled with bullet holes that blood was congealing over every inch of him, his t-shirt and jeans completely soaked through, his mouth slightly open in a look of mild surprise and his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. There was a hole in his forehead the size of Sam’s fist, brain matter clearly visible splattered across the packing crate behind him, and part of his cheekbone was missing. The gory residue of the injuries inflicted upon him continued to ooze out onto the floor as the puddle of crimson fluid stretched slow-moving fingers toward Sam’s feet.

Violently shaking off Henriksen’s clutching fingers, Sam skidded to his knees in the pool of his brother’s lifeblood, his own tears dripping onto Dean’s waxy, lifeless face.

“No, Dean, no,” Sam whispered. “Please…”

“Only a matter of time,” Henriksen was saying behind him, making no move to yank Sam back to his feet again. “Knew we’d get him sooner or later. Just had to wait for him to slip up. More chances of that happening with you outta the picture. Although I gotta admit, I’d have preferred to see him fry. But hey, dead’s dead, right? One less serial killing psycho scumbag running around out there giving me an ulcer.”

Sam didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to listen to the untruths coming out of the Fed’s mouth. Dean wasn’t a scumbag or a psycho or a killer. He wasn’t any of those things. Dean was Sam’s big brother and if he was dead… if he was dead…

“Shame you didn’t make it here for this, Sam,” Henriksen gloated. “The two of you could have gone down together. Blaze of glory. Brothers in arms. The whole nine yards.”

“Shouldn’t let big brother hunt alone, Sammy.” Gordon Walker’s words came back to haunt Sam as he leaned over Dean’s lifeless, mangled corpse, his own face reflected in sightless hazel eyes.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left—I shouldn’t have left you…” He trailed off, squeezing shut his eyes and trying to convince himself this wasn’t his life, wasn’t his brother. Couldn’t be his brother.

Please let me be somewhere else, he prayed silently. I wanna be somewhere else. Anywhere. Please. Please let me be somewhere else.

And when he opened his eyes, he was.

* * * *

It was dark again when Dean opened his eyes, dark and cold and wet and, yeah, wouldn’t you just figure it, he was on his ass again. But unlike suddenly finding himself sitting on soft green grass in the warm California sunshine, he was suddenly aware of the familiar and uncomfortable sensation of sitting in mud. Yuck. Sam was so gonna bitch at him about the laundry bill.

Which was when he remembered his brother’s feral eyes staring out at him from a werewolf’s face, teeth snapping at his neck and claws sinking into his chest.

He shuddered.

So it was dark. And wet. And cold. And his ass was covered in mud. But at least Sammy wasn’t a werewolf here. Wherever here might be.

And Dean didn’t seem any the worse for wear. Just as his injuries from the battle at Stull appeared to have miraculously healed themselves, so had the puncture wounds left by his brother’s elongated claws and jagged teeth back in that apartment in San Francisco.

Huh.

He grimaced as he pulled himself stiffly to his feet, remembering all the times he’d called Bobby an old-timer for bitching about his knees acting up in damp weather, and he pretended he didn’t feel the aching in his joints as he straightened up and looked around him.

Wiping mud off his hands onto his thighs before swiping rain off his face with the sleeve of his jacket, Dean slowly examined the terrain surrounding him and sighed. He was cold and wet and muddy and miserable and freakin’ confused as hell and pissed off and he still had no idea where Sammy was, where Dad was, where the Impala was or, hell, where he was.

“Friggin’ Frontierland,” he muttered as he began trudging up the muddy main street of what looked like an abandoned set from a Hollywood Western. Any minute now he expected to see Gary Cooper or Jimmy Stewart, or maybe even his great-great-whatever-grandfather Emmanuel Claviger come striding down the street toward him with a pissed off expression and a six-shooter in his hand.

Instead, when he looked up there was a young black kid in desert fatigues running toward him.

The kid’s eyes were huge, wild and unfocused, and he was clearly freaked out of his gourd about something or other.

Dean knew someone going into shock when he saw them.

“Hey kid, you okay?” he asked uncertainly as soldier boy got close enough for Dean to read the name “Talley” stitched to his shirt above his breast pocket.

The kid just looked at him, his eyes crazy big, as he mirrored Dean’s earlier movement and swiped his arm across his forehead to mop up some of the rain.

He had a bloody knife clutched in his hand.

Dean took an instinctive step back, hands held up in a gesture of placation, but even though the kid was looking right at him, Dean wasn’t entirely sure he was actually seeing him.

“I’m sorry,” the soldier kid said, and Dean didn’t know whether he was apologizing to him or to someone else. “I’m so sorry. I never meant—I didn’t mean—it, it all got out of control and, and crazy and I, I never meant—I never meant to…”

The young man trailed off, and Dean unaccountably began to get a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Every whacked out place he’d been since being yanked out of Stull church seemed to wind up with Sam dead or dying.

“Sam…”

As the soldier stood there looking at his bloody hands, Dean raced past him, bolting down the main street and rounding a corner, where he was more than a little surprised to see Bobby running towards him. Skidding to a halt, he managed to yell, “Bobby!” in order to get the older hunter’s attention.

Bobby glanced over at him, his face puckering in confusion for a second. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, just continued to run in the direction Dean had come from, merely yelling, “The kid, the kid—get the kid, Dean!” over his shoulder.

Dean faltered, part of him wanting to follow Bobby’s gruffly barked order, but part of him knowing he couldn’t, that there was something else he was supposed to do or see here.

Hesitantly, he continued on in the direction from which Bobby had been running, finally emerging onto another wide street flanked by dilapidated buildings and eerily shifting shadows.

In the midst of the mud and the rain and the cloying darkness, he spotted two figures kneeling on the muddy ground a few feet in front of him, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sam had a hole in his back.

It was more than a little disconcerting for Dean to suddenly find himself watching another Dean on his knees in the mud, clinging to his injured brother as if his life depended on it, one hand on his neck, the other fumbling at the wound oozing blood from the base of his spine.

“It’s not even that bad,” the other Dean was saying, an empty reassurance that clearly wasn’t reflected in his terrified tone. “It’s not even that bad, alright? Sammy? Sam! Hey, listen to me, we’re going to patch you up, okay? You’ll be as good as new. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? I’m going to take care of you, I’ve got you. Because that’s my job, right? Watching out for my pain in the ass little brother?” He pulled his brother to his chest, fingers entwined in the back of his hair. “Sam? Sam? Sammy!”

The other Dean shook his brother hard, but from the way Sam’s head was lolling against his shoulder and the amount of blood staining his jacket, it was obvious to Dean that no amount of shaking was going to wake his baby brother. The other Dean’s baby brother. Not ever again.

“Sam?” he whispered quietly, as across the street his mirror image turned his face up to the heavens and screamed the same name, his lifeless brother’s body still clutched tightly to his chest.

It was too much. Too much. Dean couldn’t do this; couldn’t keep doing this. How many times was he supposed to watch his brother die? And who the hell was doing this to him? Lucifer? Mia? Had that bitch found a new way to torture him? ’Cause sure, tying him up and stabbing, hitting, cutting, beating, slashing and electrocuting him hadn’t exactly been his idea of a good time, but seeing his little brother dead or dying over and over and over again? That was so much worse.

Something broke inside of him as he watched himself—the other Dean—collapse to the ground with his baby brother’s dead body still cradled in his arms, rocking silently onto his heels as he smoothed the younger boy’s sodden hair from his face and continued his whispered litany of, “It’s gonna be alright, Sammy. I’m gonna make it alright. I’m gonna take care of you.”

And while his heart broke for that other Dean, that other Sam, he could only cling to the knowledge that wherever he was, whatever this place was, he didn’t belong here. That wasn’t him collapsed in the mud cradling a murdered Sam in his arms. That wasn’t his baby brother, his Sammy, lying dead with a hole in his back. His Sam was…somewhere else. Somewhere safe, he hoped. Somewhere safe with Dad. And his Sammy wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. And Dean was sure as hell going to make sure he stayed that way. Because he was going to find him. He was going to find him, and make sure nothing bad ever happened to him, and they were both going to get home. Somehow.

And Dean clung to that as fiercely as the other Dean clung to his little brother’s corpse.

This wasn’t going to be them, Dean promised himself. This wasn’t going to be their life.

He took a step back as he heard Bobby yelling his name, but the other Dean showed no indication of having heard, Sam’s lifeless form the only thing he seemed able to focus on, his head resting on his big brother’s shoulder, for all the world as if he was sleeping.

The other Dean was still talking to him as he stroked his hair mindlessly, “It’s going to be okay, Sammy. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you while I’m around.”

This isn’t going to be us.

If this was some kind of freakin’ death vision thing that had somehow been beamed into Dean’s head instead of Sam’s, then it wasn’t going to happen. Dean was going to make sure of that. Sam wasn’t going to die like this, stabbed in the back in a muddy ghost town by a kid who looked almost as scared as that other Dean did. It wasn’t going to happen. And Dean needed to find Sam to make sure of it.

Please let me be somewhere else now, he prayed silently. I just wanna be somewhere else.

And not a moment too soon he felt that now familiar tug on his shoulders, and once again he was falling backwards as the world whited out around him.

And he had never been so grateful.

* * * *

The woman gripping Sam’s hand had a really firm handshake, he mused, blinking owlishly at her as he found himself once again in unfamiliar surroundings.

From the bars on the windows and the unsmiling guards with their hands on their nightsticks, there was pretty much no doubt where he’d landed this time, however.

Prison.

Hmm. So not much of an improvement on where he was before.

But better than Dean riddled with bullet holes in a pool of blood at his feet.

“Mara Daniels,” the woman introduced herself, continuing to pump Sam’s hand with smooth efficiency. “Your brother’s attorney.”

Sam blinked at her. She was hot for an attorney, he found himself thinking, instantly chiding his inner voice for sounding way too much like Dean. Why did he always seem to do that when he and his brother had been separated for too long?

But still, the woman was undeniably attractive, despite looking a little frazzled; a couple of locks of her fair hair had come loose from the knot at the nape of her neck, and her white silk blouse seemed a tiny bit rumpled. Letting go of Sam’s hand, she smoothed her hands down her smart black skirt, before trying to tuck the stray hair back into place. “I’ve been Dean’s attorney since he got arrested in Little Rock,” she added. “You know? When he broke into the Arkansas Museum of Anthropology?”

Sam nodded blankly. “Uh. Okay.”

Why the hell would Dean want to break into a museum? Knowing Dean, it’d be far more likely he’d be trying to break out!

Daniels smiled wanly at him, before shaking her head and looking away, turning her attention to straightening some already-straight papers on the metal table in front of her. “Right about now I’m wishing that little prison break he tried to stage over at the Green River County Detention Center had actually worked,” she said quietly, a mirthless laugh in her subdued voice. She sighed before looking up again, packing the paperwork into her briefcase and motioning Sam out of the open door toward a long, drably-painted hallway.

“I know you’re a lawyer yourself, Mr. Winchester,” she began.

“Sam,” Sam interjected automatically.

The attorney smiled sadly. “Sam. Look, you know the score, what’s going on here, so I’m not going to sugarcoat any of this for you.” She sighed again, distractedly fussing once again at the lock of hair that seemed determined to fall into her face. “But Dean’s final appeal has failed. The Governor won’t grant a pardon or a stay. Your brother’s still scheduled for death by lethal injection at midnight.”

“Wait, what?”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Lethal injection? Dean?

“At midnight,” Daniels repeated, carrying on walking as if she hadn’t noticed Sam was no longer next to her.

Sam caught up with her quickly, remembering what that Henriksen guy had said about wanting to see Dean fry, and thanking whoever was listening that whatever state he was in no longer used the electric chair.

“Look, Ms. Daniels,” he managed to stutter out.

“Mara,” the attorney corrected him.

“Mara. Dean never killed anyone. I swear. He doesn’t—he doesn’t deserve to die—”

“I know that, Sam,” Daniels agreed, nodding. “And I believe you. Just like I believed Dean. He’s been telling me the same thing for years. Never changed his story, not once. I mean, I know it’s a little crazy—I know he’s a little crazy—but I always believed him. Right from the moment he asked me to look into his eyes and tell him whether I believed he was guilty or not, whether I believed he was a monster or not. Right before he asked me to go find out where some random prison nurse was buried.” She smiled sadly and shook her head again. “Look, Sam, I know what Dean does; what your dad taught you to do. And I completely understand your decision to step away and go to school; have a life. Be a person. You shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this. It’s not your fault.”

The attorney’s words seemed too familiar, things Sam had said to Dean being repeated back to him by this woman he’d never met before. She seemed earnest and sincere enough, and Sam figured she must have spent a lot of time with his brother over the last couple of years for him to have unburdened himself to her like that. To have told her the truth, who he really was. Dean never opened up to strangers.

“Thanks,” was all he could think of to say in return for the woman’s kind words. “That—that means a lot.”

Daniels stopped for a second and squeezed his bicep before inclining her head to a small cell off the main hallway. “I’m glad you came,” she said quietly. “This is going to mean a lot to him.”

She ushered Sam into the cell where Dean was sitting on a low cot, chowing down on what Sam could only imagine was his last meal: burger and fries followed by cherry pie. Figured.

He looked pretty good considering he must have been in prison a good couple of years, still toting that cocky smile of his like this was all part of the plan. And Dean was certainly the only person Sam knew who could look good in an orange jumpsuit.

But Sam knew his brother—even if this wasn’t technically his brother—and he could see the abject terror lurking just beneath the surface of his wide green eyes.

Dean looked up as Sam entered the cell, his apparent calm slipping slightly when he caught sight of his little brother.

“Hey, Matlock,” he greeted him, grinning in a way that somehow looked forced, his tone slightly off as if he was faking civility. “Wondered if you were gonna show up.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to say, uncertain what kind of relationship, if any, this Dean might have with the Sam that actually belonged in this place. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he blurted out, mentally kicking himself and grimacing as Dean snorted loudly. “I mean, I didn’t—You know what—You know what I—”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, kiddo,” Dean assured him, and this time the grin he tossed Sam’s way seemed a little more genuine. He rose slowly to his feet, surprising Sam by suddenly cupping a hand to the back of his neck and looking up into his eyes. “I kinda missed you, Gigantor,” he added. “You okay? You need anything?”

Sam choked back a watery laugh. “Do I need anything?” he asked a little incredulously. “Dean. You’re about to—they’re going to—”

“Better ’n hellhounds, Sammy,” Dean replied, and Sam wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

“Seriously, Dean,” Daniels interjected. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?”

Dean cast an odd look Sam’s way before shaking his head. “Nah, I’m good,” he told the attorney. “Got everything I need right here.”

Daniels nodded, before blowing out a breath. “Dean—”

“Hey, c’mon there, Ally McB,” Dean cut her off. “You know how I feel about chick flick moments.”

Daniels smiled softly at him, nodding minutely and wiping at her eyes as if she totally had some dirt in them or something. “Yeah, same here,” she agreed.

“Thanks though,” Dean added, reaching out a hand to snag one of hers. “You were awesome.”

“Not awesome enough, apparently,” the attorney observed, squeezing Dean’s hand gently, before pulling him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Dean,” she whispered. “If there was anything else I could do, you know I’d do it.”

“Yeah I do,” Dean replied, to Sam’s great consternation not pulling away, but instead hugging the attorney back warmly. “And I know you did everything humanly possible and then some. Some things are just meant to happen the way they happen, sweetheart. Nobody’s fault. Karma, I guess. Maybe in the next life I’ll be Hugh Hefner.”

Daniels laughed wetly, dabbing at her eyes some more as she pulled away.

“C’mon, honey, it’s not that bad,” Dean said. “Although I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? For what?”

“For ruining all your future relationships. ’Cause you know, every time you meet a hot guy you’re gonna be comparing him to me, right?”

Daniels snorted. “In your dreams, hotshot.”

“Yeah, probably,” Dean agreed, before sobering slightly. “Seriously though. Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Daniels assured him. “I’ll send your brother the bill.”

It was Dean’s turn to snort. “Aw honey, I’m gonna miss you.”

“Same here.” Daniels glanced sheepishly at Sam then, as if only just remembering he was there. “Okay, well I’d better leave you two to—to—say goodbye. I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”

“Sure,” Dean nodded, watching the attorney’s back as she left the cell, before turning his attention back to Sam. “So Sammy. Came to see me off, huh?”

“What the hell happened, Dean?” Sam couldn’t help asking. “How did you wind up in this mess? And—and why am I only just hearing about it?”

“Look, it was a set up, Sammy. No biggie. Thought I could handle it by myself is all. Only other hunters I’d have trusted to have my back on this one, y’know, besides you, would o’ been Bobby—who’s sorta long in the tooth for this kinda gig—and Jo, who’s, well. A girl.”

“What kind of gig?” Sam asked uncertainly.

“You think I’m dumb enough to get caught breaking into some crap-ass museum for crying out loud?” Dean hissed, pulling Sam aside in the hopes the guards waiting outside the cell wouldn’t be able to hear them. “I got myself caught by the cops on purpose!”

Sam frowned, the obvious question hovering for a second on his lips. “Why?”

Dean sighed impatiently. “Remember Deacon?”

“Dad’s buddy from the Corps?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “He’s a prison guard now—”

“Let me guess. Green River County Detention Center?”

“Mm-hmm. The place was being haunted by the spirit of this freaky-ass nurse who was ganking inmates just for the hell of it.”

“Which is why you asked Mara to find out where she was buried?”

Dean raised a salacious eyebrow. “Oh it’s ‘Mara’ now huh?”

“Dean.”

“Okay, okay. Yeah. That’s why I needed to know where she was buried. Deacon was supposed to get me out when the job was done, but things went south when Henriksen—”

“Agent Henriksen?”

“No, Lance Henriksen!” Dean shot back. “Yes Agent Henriksen, asshat! You know any other Henriksens?”

Sam was tempted to point out he didn’t know any Henriksens, but let Dean’s comment slide.

“Special Agent Victor Friggin’ Henriksen shows up,” Dean continued. “He’d figured out the link between Dad and Deacon. Made damn sure my little prison break never happened. Got Deacon fired. And I wound up in Supermax charged with a whole string of so-called ‘murders,’ starting with your buddy Zach’s girlfriend Emily in St. Louis, y’know, the one that devilishly handsome shapeshifter tortured to death? Right up to a whole slew of hostages who got themselves ganked when another shapeshifter decided to rob a bank in Milwaukee. I got the shifter, but things got a little—uh—complicated when this have-a-go hero decided to try and help me out when he didn’t really have a clue what was actually goin’ on. He wound up getting ventilated by a police sniper. I got out, but Henriksen convinced himself I was the bad guy. After that, I was public enemy numero uno as far as Henriksen and the Feds were concerned.”

Suddenly the “bank robbery” prior Sam had read about in Dean’s police file made sense, as did Agent Henriksen’s apparent obsession with Milwaukee. If Dean got away from right under the guy’s nose, then Sam could see how that might have pissed the Fed off. Still didn’t explain his apparent belief that Sam was somehow involved though.

“So… So where was I while you were off robbing banks?” he asked a little cautiously.

“Dude, how many times I gotta tell you, I was not robbing banks!” Dean protested, before apparently registering the mischievous smirk on Sam’s face. He grinned a little lopsidedly before continuing. “Y’know I’m actually kinda hurt you’ve not been following my illustrious career from your corner office, dude,” he informed his brother, before pausing, eyebrows crinkling into a confused frown. “You even have an office, Matlock? Or do you only get one o’ those when you make Partner?”

There was a trace of bitterness in Dean’s voice, and Sam couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the two of them in this version of their lives to make them so apparently distant and awkward with each other.

Sam shook his head. “So you were hunting that shifter by yourself?” he clarified. “No backup?”

Dean’s eyes were a little downcast. “Sammy, I’ve been hunting without backup since Dad disappeared and got t-boned by that semi, you know that.”

“You shouldn’t hunt by yourself,” Sam found himself echoing Gordon Walker’s words, and shuddered slightly.

“Yeah well. Like I said. Bobby’s gettin’ too old and I ain’t huntin’ with no almost-life-sized Barbie, no matter how hard she begs.” Dean met Sam’s gaze for the briefest of seconds before looking away again. “And you weren’t there.”

“Dean—” Sam swallowed the lump that had unaccountably risen into his throat.

“Sam, it’s okay,” Dean cut him off. “I don’t blame you for wanting a life. Or for not wanting this life. And—and believe me, I was so proud of you for standing up to Dad and going off to do your own thing at Stanford.”

Sam did a double take. “You—you were?”

Dean cautiously raised his eyes to find Sam’s. “’Course I was, Sammy. You’re my little geek, egghead brother. What’s not to be proud of?”

Sam snorted softly. “Thanks.”

“And I know we’ve not seen each other since Dad’s funeral,” Dean continued, sobering a little. “Which is as much my fault as it is yours. I—I didn’t mean to shut you out, Sammy. It’s just—it’s just hard to fit into your world when you don’t want to fit into mine. Y’know? It’s not like I’d be welcome at the Law Society spring formal, right? Or that you’d want to hang out at the Roadhouse with me ’n Bobby.” Dean suddenly gripped Sam’s biceps tightly, looking up at him with genuine regret in his eyes. “We’re from two different worlds, Sammy. You got to be normal. A ‘real person,’ remember? And I’m glad. I’m glad you got out. Otherwise you might have wound up here with me. And I don’t think I could have handled that.”

Sam wiped the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed, blinking his eyes rapidly. Not my Dean, not my Dean, he kept telling himself, willing that to be true.

“Sammy.” Dean’s hand was on his cheek. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad we got this chance to say goodbye, man.”

“But—but it’s not fair,” Sam stammered, his voice cracking a little. “My getting to have ‘normal’ shouldn’t mean you having to die!”

He thought about all the times growing up he’d wished he could stay in one school, have friends, play soccer, go to the mall; all the times he’d wished Dean had never come to get him at Stanford, all the times he’d wished he’d not gone with him to Jericho, wished he’d stayed with Jess, kept her safe, kept her alive, got married, had kids.

Sam thought about all the things he’d wished for in his life, all the escape plans he’d made, right from the age of eight when he first found out about the “family business;” all the things he’d thought he wanted. And he suddenly realized that none of them included Dean. None of them. And that just seemed incredible to him now. That he could have wished for a future and a life without Dean in it.

Sam knew he wasn’t that person anymore, that he didn’t really want those things anymore. He knew there was no going back, and he knew he wasn’t destined to have the two point four kids and the white picket fence and the dog.

And he was surprisingly okay with that. Especially if him and Dean being apart meant this, meant Dean was destined to die if Sam didn’t have his back.

So why was Sam being shown this stuff? Why was he being shown over and over that he and Dean needed to stick together? There had to be a reason. Some point to all this. Right? It couldn’t just be random.

“Dean, you don’t deserve this, and I’m sorry,” he managed to choke out. “I shouldn’t have left you to do this by yourself.”

“Sammy—”

“No, Dean, listen. It was never about you, okay? My wanting to leave? It was never about you.”

“I know that, Sam—”

“You’re a good person and you don’t deserve this. You never killed anything that didn’t deserve killing, and you sure as hell never killed an innocent! I don’t understand! I don’t understand why this is happening.”

Dean smiled bitterly. “Because life sucks and no good deed goes unpunished?” he offered. “Look, it’s okay, Sammy. I’m okay. You know, at least one of us survived this craptastic mess of a life our family seems to have gotten itself condemned to. Sammy?” Dean had both his hands on the back of Sam’s neck, tilting his face up so he was looking him in the eye. “I’m okay with this. I’m okay with dyin’ as long as I know you’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay, right?”

Sam shook his head. “Dean—”

“You and Jessica and the rugrat,” Dean continued. “Don’t let Mary Ellen forget her awesome Uncle Dean, okay?”

Sam shook his head again, his heart unable to get with the program as his brain tried to remind himself this wasn’t his life, wasn’t his Dean…

“Dean, it’s time.”

Mara Daniels had appeared at the entrance to the cell, flanked by two guards.

Sam glanced at his watch: ten minutes to midnight. “What, what’s the date?” he asked a little hesitantly, and Daniels frowned.

“November 1st,” she replied, mimicking Sam’s movement and glancing at her own watch. “Nearly November 2nd.”

“November 2nd?”

“Sam, don’t think about it,” Dean put in suddenly, again angling his brother’s head so they were facing each other. “Don’t think about it, okay? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s gonna be okay, okay?”

“Dean, how can this be okay?”

“Look, you should go now. I don’t want you to see this, alright?” Dean glanced over at Daniels. “Make sure he doesn’t see this, Mara. Promise me, huh?”

Daniels nodded.

Dean’s hand was warm on Sam’s neck, and Sam couldn’t help himself. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he was wrapping his arms around his big brother and hanging on as if his life depended on it. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “Dean, don’t go.”

Dean didn’t pull away, just muttered into Sam’s collar. “It’s okay, Sammy. Just remember what I taught you. Remember what Dad taught you. And take care of my wheels, okay?”

This hurt too much. It wasn’t real, Sam knew it wasn’t real, but this Dean before him, this Dean he was clinging to like a life raft in the middle of the ocean? Ultimately he was still Sam’s big brother: looked like him, sounded like him, smelt like him. And the pain in Sam’s chest was very real, as were the tears threatening to choke him. But he refused to cry. Dean would hate that. Any Dean.

But this just hurt too damn much.

Finally, Dean broke the embrace, pulling away with a gentle pat to Sam’s cheek. “Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he instructed him, before turning to the guards and taking a breath. “Okay, guys. Show me to the party.”

“No, wait, Dean—”

“It’s gonna be okay, Sammy,” Dean told him. “I’ll see you in the next life, huh?”

It was too much, and Sam had to scrub at his cheeks with the arm of his jacket as the guards entered the cell, each taking one of Dean’s arms and leading him out into the hallway.

“Dean—”

“Bye, Sammy.”

No, no, no…

“Please, someone, please take me home,” he whispered, raising his eyes to the ceiling in a silent prayer. “Please. Please. Someone take me home.”

And then he felt that now familiar tug on his shoulders, and once again he was falling backwards as the world whited out around him.

And he had never been so grateful.

* * * *

“Oh Dean, thank God!”

Dean had a mouthful of brunette hair and a woman hugging him so hard he thought his ribs might just break. Again.

She stepped back, holding him at arms’ length and looking him over as if to convince herself he was okay, he was all in one piece, it was really him.

“Ellen?”

It was the woman from Sam’s “funeral.” The stepmom.

She looked different somehow. Her hair was no longer encumbered by the business-like ponytail she’d worn when Dean had last seen her, and gone were the smart black skirt, jacket and high heels she’d worn at the cemetery, replaced instead by scruffy jeans, a plaid shirt and sturdy-looking walking boots that Dean figured would hurt like hell if she decided to kick you in the shins with them. Quite why the woman’s current appearance led Dean to thinking she might actually want to kick someone in the shins, he wasn’t sure, but there was definitely something different about her, something less harsh but somehow harder at the same time.

“They said you were dead!” she burst out, squeezing his arms none-too-gently. “Dragged off by hellhounds just like—just like your dad!”

“I guess the reports of my death have been slightly exaggerated,” Dean replied a little uncertainly. Hellhounds?

“Well thank the Lord for that,” Ellen said, choosing that moment to pull him back into a heartfelt hug. “I know you said your dad—that he got out through the Hellgate—but still. The thought of you in Hell…”

Hell?

Okay, now Dean was really confused.

Ellen pressed her hand against Dean’s cheek, and she seemed genuinely relieved to see him, not at all like the woman—stepmom—he’d met in the cemetery in Palo Alto.

He smiled down at her warmly, before risking a glance around himself to get his bearings.

He was standing in a gravel parking lot outside a rundown shack with a sign proclaiming “Harvelle’s Roadhouse” on the outside. There were a couple of pickups in the lot, a motorcycle that had definitely seen better days, and a beat up old Dodge Caravan that looked completely out of place, and Dean got the distinct impression the joint wasn’t exactly jumping.

“Come on inside, hon,” Ellen was saying, taking his arm and leading him toward the entrance to the bar. “You must be parched.”

Dean considered that. How long had it been since he’d had anything to eat or drink? He really had no idea. He couldn’t even say how much time had passed since he’d first entered the church at Stull. “Yeah,” he agreed, allowing Ellen to pull him through the parking lot. “Beer sounds good.”

“You know it,” Ellen agreed. “Look, Dean, I know we lost touch after the fire—the almost fire—and the Hellgate and all of that craziness,” she added. “And I’m real sorry about that, believe me. Honestly, it’s so good to see you boys again.”

Dean’s attention snapped to her instantly. “Boys?” he echoed, a thread of needy curiosity weaving its way into his voice. “As in more than one?”

Ellen obviously saw the question in his eyes, beaming up at him like she was the keeper of the best secret in the whole damn world. “C’mon, sweetie,” she said. “Someone inside’s been waiting for you.”

Reaching out, she pushed open the door and urged Dean into the roadhouse, and he had to blink hard to adjust from the bright sunshine out in the parking lot to the dimly-lit interior of the low-ceilinged room opening out in front of him.

The place looked worn but somehow welcoming, the floorboards stained and scuffed from heavy traffic and heavier boots and the dilapidated furniture showed definite signs of having seen one bar fight too many.

There was a sprinkling of tables across the room, all of them empty, and a pool table listed a little drunkenly to one side in a raised area up a couple of steps to Dean’s left.

To his right, the bar itself was surrounded by empty barstools, the only patron being a guy with an unruly mop of brown hair and broad shoulders hunched over a beer with his back to them. He was wearing a brown hoodie and, Dean noted idly, jeans with frayed hems over black and white running shoes that had definitely seen better days.

Dean figured the guy would be pretty damn tall when he stood up.

He took a step closer, and, as the guy swiveled around on his barstool Dean’s breath caught in his throat.

“Sammy?”

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The Winchester Chronicles